


Untouchable

by D_Veleniet



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Clara still has echo dreams, Clara's echoes are a thing, F/M, Post-Season/Series 07 AU, The Doctor still thinks he knows what's best, The TARDIS is basically a character, Twelve doesn't understand emotions, elements of canon Twelve mixed with AU Twelve, especially his own, relationships take time to figure out, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 15:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6859840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Veleniet/pseuds/D_Veleniet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara stopped missing the touches, stopped smarting from his flinches when they would accidentally brush up against each other or bump arms. She stopped wondering what had changed so much inside him that had made her physically repulsive to him now. Then one night she agreed to a set-up on a blind date. Sequel to Hold Onto Me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally conceived as a 5-chapter sequel to Hold Onto Me and published on ff.net in August 2014 before season 8 started. Two years later, it's 10 chapters and I'm ALMOST done with it. :-p

Of all the ways the regeneration had changed the Doctor, the most striking was that he now _hated_ touching Clara.

She remembered coming to this conclusion with a startling emptiness as she drank her tea one morning.  Hunching over her mug, she blew on the steam, wondering if it would waft into her eyes and make them water.  But her eyes stayed dry, and her sips were calm.

The trickle of awareness that had led her to this revelation had been almost painful in its familiarity.  Though she would never have admitted it, she had kept a secret tally of those little additional touches his previous self had indulged in, those constant reminders that he loved being close to her.  She silently ticked them off on her fingers, each new one a miniature victory, until they grew so numerous she gleefully lost track.  Now instead of additions, it was subtractions.  She marked the subtractions as she had the additions, each finger slowly folding in defeat at an absence:  the lack of a guiding palm at the small of her back as they navigated their way through a maze of cornfields on Yemont; the absence of a hand at her cheek after she’d tripped over a sleeping Jakrafek and it responded by snapping at her head (she could still feel the warmth of its breath on the back of her neck when he’d pulled her free and asked her an earnest _are you all right?_ , hands noticeably dropping to his sides); the way his fingers flew from hers after he’d helped her down a particularly steep incline in the rolling foothills of the village on Çatalhöyük.   

And when she was left with a closed fist, wrist hanging limply, she started to gain an awareness of just how wide a berth this new Doctor provided her. 

Because apparently… they weren’t doing the hugging thing, either.

Gone were their pick-up and drop-off hugs.  Gone were the “I’m-so-glad-you’re-okay” hugs.   As to the “this-is-so-brilliant,” and “I-just-have-to-hug-you” hugs?  Well… 

She’d bravely brushed it off – or tried to – reasoning that he didn’t _really_ have to hug her if he’d just seen her last week or would see her the following week.  And if she exhibited no broken bones, no bruises, and all limbs were visibly intact – he might still be relieved, even if he didn’t show it with a hug.  And – well, it was highly unlikely there would be an occasion when this Doctor just _had_ to hug her. 

Okay, so they weren’t doing the hugging thing.  She got that now. 

But then came their trip to Oalogtu, home of the Gruhflane. 

She’d insisted it felt too quiet when they landed in the capital city.  Even ruthless creatures have to visit the shops, she’d reasoned, but there was no hustle and bustle of a thriving city.  No proud Gruhflane strutting through the square, their amassed wealth of every conquered race in the galaxy on lavish display.  She’d just jabbed an elbow in the Doctor’s direction (never poking him in the ribs, of course, as that would require touching) joking that maybe he had exaggerated when he’d declared the Gruhflane the most dangerous, vile, bloodthirsty creatures in the Universe, and they were all hiding because they were going to surprise him with a welcome party. 

Unfortunately, she hadn’t been entirely wrong.

The net – if it could be called a net when it was made of such a sticky, prickly substance – landed on top of them, and then it was no longer quiet, and she no longer cared if he didn’t want her to touch him because she was grabbing at him, clinging to his arm, then his sleeve, then his wrist as she was pulled away from him, away from the TARDIS, away from the capital city to a far-off location somewhere so far beneath the ground that even the light couldn’t touch her.

There had been nothing to eat but a strange, grey mush that pulsated in a way which led her to believe it was still alive; nowhere to sleep except the cold, dingy floor of her cell; no conversation except the taunts of the guards who hinted at hearts being ripped out of chests and crushed before prisoners’ eyes; no hope left but what remained of her dwindling faith in this new Doctor.  Time had lost meaning:  minutes stretched out into months and days would end before she was even aware they’d begun.   

But then, one absolutely miraculous yet entirely mundane day – she was released.

Her first touch since she had been ripped away from the Doctor and thrown in a cell was a rough drag of her elbow by the guard she’d secretly named Spike. (For all his prominent, pointed chin hairs.)  He towed her forcefully down a long corridor, around a corner and the next touch was an abrupt shove across the threshold of an archway.  

And there he was – the Doctor, overturning his chair as he stood at the sight of her. 

Any relief he might have felt was eclipsed by the frigid, murderous rage he exhibited at her captors, as he ground out some kind of terms from between gnashing teeth.  But she didn’t hear the words because she was willing her feet to obey, to disregard the spinning room and her darkening vision as she stumbled towards him, determined to make it far enough to at least feel a comforting arm around her shoulder. 

Yet her body was starved for far more than touch, and if the Doctor broke his rule with her that one time – she never found out. 

When she awoke in her bedroom on the TARDIS– _finally!_ – he was there.  Relief was plainly written across the gentle slope of his harsh eyebrows, but he only laid his fingertips on her wrist to take her pulse, pronouncing her remarkably improved.  Silent begging hadn’t been enough, and her choked-out request got garbled as it tripped out of her mouth if his blank stare was any indication.  Finally, she was able to muster her courage, find her voice, and her request turned into a plea for a _hug_.  He’d shifted uncomfortably, then awkwardly patted both her arms, informing her again that she was okay.  A further demand led to an even more awkward half-embrace, hands gingerly patting her back, the creases of his elbows still inches from her shoulders.  If she’d had the strength, she might’ve asked him if he feared she’d contracted some deadly Time Lord plague.

Or she might’ve asked if he’d taken lessons in caring from the Gruhflane. 

After that, she stopped missing the touches. 

She stopped expecting a caress on her cheek for a proposed solution to a problem or a reassuring squeeze of her hand before they ventured into a particularly dangerous situation.  She stopped smarting from his flinches when they would accidentally brush against each other or bump arms as they navigated the console of the TARDIS.  She stopped wondering what had changed so much inside him that had made her physically repulsive to him. 

She started things, too. 

She started kissing Artie on the forehead after his occasional nightmares because she knew how comforting it could feel.  She started giving Angie’s shoulders a reassuring pat when she was frustrated with her homework.  Then she switched jobs, moved out of the Maitlands’, and somehow found herself with a touchy-feely flatmate.  She started hugging her dad more.  She started looping arms with her friends when they went out together.  And gradually, that sharp, piercing pain left by her erstwhile bowtied alien slowly dulled.  Yet there was still one final means of soothing that ache, one type of contact that she could not find from her flatmate or her friends – or anyone, for that matter.

So eventually, she grudgingly agreed to be set-up on a blind date. 

* * *

 

Out of all of the changes he’d had to grapple with in his new body, if there was one thing that had stayed irrevocably, painfully, _resolutely_ the same, it was that the Doctor _always_ wanted to touch Clara.

At first, he’d thought it was nothing more than a lingering remnant from his previous body – his previous self.  And perhaps it was, but he’d never recalled such constant awareness of her in relation to his physical space.  It was more like she was always buzzing around his periphery, and he happened to be clumsy enough and exuberant enough (or eager enough?) to keep colliding with her.  But there was a sharpness that hadn’t previously existed.  Whereas he might have noticed her proximity to him before when she leaned next to him at the console - now?  Now he could _feel_ every waft of her breath as it drifted over his hands.  Before he might have noted there was a sweet smell to her hair when she stood in front of him, but now he intuitively categorized the multitude of odors:  freesia, coconut and something akin to sandalwood.  Touches had been welcome and pleasant before, but now – now they were simply _electrifying_.  Even the briefest contact from the pads of her fingers registered as a burn, not the soft warmth of her skin. 

And, unfortunately for him, this new body delivered another heightened sense with regards to touching Clara.  Whereas he may have known that her hair was brown before, he now chastised himself for not taking the time to map out the feel of the different shades.  Why had he wasted those moments on idle caresses when he could have spent literally _hours_ testing whether the darker brown was slightly heavier, or if her auburn highlights had a silkier feel to them?  Every time he’d taken her hand, fingers intertwining easily, he’d never noted whether there was a difference between the dimples in her knuckles – and all those quick kisses on her hands, yet he’d never tested whether his lips fit in between each knuckle.  Did the skin at the nape of her neck feel as soft as that of her cheek or her forehead?  All those times she’d worn her hair up and he’d never bothered to find out.  And, most maddeningly of all, why had he never noticed that rare flash of pink when she sometimes bit her lip?  The memory of the precious few times her tongue had brushed against his was still raw, as though it had happened yesterday and not what was arguably a lifetime ago.  

It would have been easy, so _very_ easy to give in to at least _some_ , if not _all_ , of those urges.  He might have disguised them, as he had so many times before:   a reassuring squeeze of her hand before venturing into a particularly dangerous situation; a brief hug after a brush with death; a guiding palm on the small of her back .  He might’ve decided to keep hold of her hand after he’d helped her down a steep incline. 

But he didn’t. 

It wasn’t just the age gap that stopped him.  Yes, there were comments – they seemed to follow them no matter where or when they traveled to.  From the bustling streets of 19th century Paris to the quaint little villages on Yemont to the soaring skylines of progressive 71st century Triktillfania.  It made no difference:  everyone assumed she was his daughter, his granddaughter or his niece.  No one wondered what they were to each other anymore. 

And that only made the contradictory nature of their relationship all the more maddening to him.

Clara was many things, but most importantly she was his compass for his kindness and compassion, buried so deeply within this new body.  If he held onto her, he’d find it - as long as she was there. 

But then they traveled to Oalogtu, and in a screaming instant, she wasn’t there. 

The Gruhflane had fled with Clara, and with her – his mercy.

The need to rain down terror and destruction on their planet bubbled dangerously close to the surface, the scalding desire to wipe those self-satisfied sneers off their faces. It took every ounce of control to rein the murderous impulses in.

His hands staid from the bloodshed he craved so that they might touch her again.  He worked tirelessly, contacting every friend and even some erstwhile enemies to devise a plan that would release her.  Release his hearts’ compass to him; release his friend…his Impossible Girl.

Release _his_ Clara.

And when the moment finally arrived, when she had stumbled towards him and fallen, he’d been there to catch her, feeble limbs wrapping protectively around her.  He’d stood with her in his arms inside the medical bay back on the TARDIS, knowing that she needed immediate medical assistance for her starvation, her dehydration, and a myriad of other issues he knew he should be thinking of and yet was too distracted by those same feeble limbs’ refusal to let go of her. 

He’d met with the same resistance after he’d nursed her back to a stable condition, reasoning that perhaps it was because he needed to ensure she was alive, and here, and convalescent enough that he could put her in her own bed, and he was holding her over it as if to say, _take that, Universe!  I made a bargain with you that I’d go save worlds if you let her live.  I’m holding you to your bargain.  And I’m holding her, too._

But then she stirred, and still he didn’t let go.

She stirred, and as he looked down at her, an easy two feet from her bed, the Universe narrowed to the sleeping girl in his arms.  To these precious moments he absolutely _had_ to touch her, when he could cradle her to him, ignoring his straining shoulder and arm muscles and press her against his hearts, feeling the faint but steady beating of her own.  When he could curl his fingers into the crook of her leg and feel the difference in the skin on the underside of her knee. 

But he had to let go eventually. 

And when she was awake, when she addressed him with those dark-rimmed eyes, wide with desperation, begging him for a hug, he’d _almost_ relented.  He enclosed her in a tentative embrace, like a test - and then – _then_ he felt it.  Every nerve ending engaging to every spot of her he touched, orienting like a flower to the sun…

Except instead of blooming, he was bursting into flames.

He’d released her roughly, and he knew he was being cruel – could see the accusation, the pain, the shock and anger in her eyes – but he finally, _finally_ understood just how dangerous giving in would be.

Because she was his compass, yes – guiding him and helping him stay connected to his reason for traveling, for helping.  Without her, he was lost.

But _with_ her…

He could surrender – he could give in to these feelings, these _urges_ , these ever-present desires – and he knew that she would reciprocate and that they could have what they’d always wanted.  Yet, even if she lived and traveled with him, even if she could spend the next 50, 60 years of her life with him, she would die.  They always died. 

And then he’d really be in trouble. 

Because he wouldn’t care anymore.  He wouldn’t retreat to a cloud to sulk; he’d find worlds to conquer.  He would unleash every dark impulse he’d ever harboured; he’d be ruthless and reckless and die a violent death embittered and angry, setting the Valeyard free.  He’d be damning the Universe to its destruction.

And so the Doctor kept her at arms’ length – quite literally. 

Until one evening he showed up on her doorstep and found out she had a date.


	2. Chapter 2

“D’you want another?”

Clara eyed her martini glass, studying the blue dregs clinging to the bottom of it as if they held the answers she sought.  As if her enjoyment of it were the _real_ question and not the one underlying it posed from the very earnest man seated opposite her at the table.

“Um…”

They’d already exhausted all that mutual friends and work-related conversation had to offer, dispensing with both topics fairly quickly.   Perhaps because neither was particularly enthusiastic about their work, and discovering that they actually knew not just one, but _two_ of the same people hadn’t done much for them past brief nods and smiles of recognition at familiar names. 

Well…at least that was something in common.

“Yeah, why not?”  Her smile was not entirely forced.

Frederick turned in his seat, waving at a passing waiter.  “’Scuse me?  Can we get – oh, sorry.”  The waiter rushed right past their table, attending to a group of girls in their 20’s who had apparently captured his attention far more than the slightly pudgy man in his 30’s with the sandy blonde hair and rolled up sleeves.  Frederick’s shirt clung to his back in places where patches of sweat had soaked through already. 

Clara ran her finger around the rim of the glass, back to studying what remained of her drink. It still had yet to offer any answers.

“What was that again?  A Blue Snapper?”

“Sorry?”

Frederick motioned towards her empty glass.  “Your drink.  I wanna see if I can catch this – ‘scuse me, mate!”  He successfully snagged the waiter before he disappeared through the kitchen doors.  “Can we get another round here?  Pint of Guinness for me and a Blue Snapper for the lady.”

The waiter peered down condescendingly at Frederick over the rims of his orange-tinted spectacles.  “You mean a Blue _Flapper_?”

“Oh, is that what it’s called?  Yeah.  Whatever that blue drink is.”

The waiter sniffed as if Frederick had insulted him, squaring his shoulders and looming over the sweating man.  “We have other blue drinks, _sir_.  Are you quite certain the Blue Flapper is what you ordered before?”

“Yeah,” Clara chimed in.  “I had a Blue Flapper, I’m sure of it.  Could you bring us another one, _please_?”  She gave him a grin that was all teeth.

The waiter pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, snapping his notepad shut.  “Absolutely, ma’am.  Right away, ma’am.”

Frederick shook his head after their hoity-toity waiter had successfully made his escape, jabbing his thumb in his direction.  “I don’t get people like that.  Why’ve they got to be so stuck up?  I mean, it was an honest mistake, but he acts like I insulted his bloody mum!”

Clara shrugged.  “I dunno.  Wouldn’t worry about it too much, though.”

“That’s why I never go to places like this!  All they do is make you feel uncomfortable and try to remind you every second that you don’t belong here!” 

Clara bit her lip and stayed silent.

Frederick blanched.  “I mean…that’s not what I mean, of course – I’m not saying that it’s you – I mean I really am having a nice time,” he stammered. 

She nodded once.  The menu of appetizers she had no intention of eating had suddenly captured her interest.

“And did I mention that you look – well – I mean, you look really, _really_ nice.  That’s a very lovely dress.”

That earned him a half smile.  “Thank you.”

_“Why are you dressed like that?”_

_Clara sighed, hand immediately going to the back of her neck where a few tendrils had escaped her attempt at an elaborate up-do.  “This is why you have a phone, Doctor.  So you can answer it when I’m trying to get in touch with you.”_

_“The phone?  The phone was making a strange, screeching noise, and so I threw it in a black hole.”_

_“Well, that was a brilliant idea.  I’m sure you showed that phone who was boss, getting it to stop that annoying RINGING sound.”_

_The Doctor frowned.  “I’m not sure it was ringing – it was extremely high-pitched, and it was hurting my ears.  Though it could’ve been ringing, I suppose.”_

_“If you’d maybe bothered to pick it up before its spectacular demise, I’d have told you that you need to come back next week.  I have plans tonight.”_

_His frown turned into a scowl.  “Why?  It’s Thursday.”_

_Clara glanced at her watch, anxious at the time.  “Yes, I know, but this was the only day that worked for me and for…the other person.”_

_The Doctor considered her outfit again.  “Oh.  Are you going to a funeral?”_

_Now it was Clara’s turn to frown.  “What?  No!  Why would you think I’m going to a funeral?”_

_“Well, you’re dressed all in black.”_

_“This is…” She tugged at the little black dress self-consciously, though there wasn’t much room for her to tug.  Not when the bodice melded to her body with a corset-like fit.  She hadn’t remembered it being quite this tight, but then again, she hadn’t gone on a date since…since…_

_She swallowed, chasing the end of that particular thought away.  “This is a dressy outfit for a special occasion.  Or for going out to someplace nice and having a good time, hopefully.  For a - date.”_   

_The Doctor didn’t even blink.  “Are you going on a date to a funeral?”_

_Her jaw clenched.  “No, no - don’t do that.”_

_“Do what?”_

_“Do that thing you do where you act like I’m the first human you’ve encountered in all your 1200 years of existence.  I really don't have…”  She sighed.  “Just – come back in a week.  Pop back in, quick hop – you’ll probably be back here in three minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”_

_His eyes swooped disinterestedly over her outfit again, landing and fixing on her spiky heels.  “Don’t be wearing those.  Frettalaiku has a lot of swamps, and the bogs emit this foul odor that gets into your clothes and –”_

_“Yes, thank you, that sounds…REALLY lovely, and I’m - definitely sad I’ll be missing all the smelly swamps tonight.”_

_“Oh, you won’t miss them.  They’ll be waiting there for us next week,” he reassured her._

_“’Course they will, can’t wait.”_

_The Doctor nodded at her as if that settled it.  “Good.  Next Thursday, then.”  He turned on his heel, then paused, glancing back at her.  “I hope your date doesn’t get confused and take you to the wrong place.”_

_“And why would he get confused?”_

_He shook his head.  “So much black.”_

“And that’s a nice wrap.  Er – shawl?”  He earnestly asked her.  There was a lot about Frederick that was so very earnest.

“Um – yeah, you could call it a wrap, I guess.  Or a scarf, I dunno.” Clara adjusted it self-consciously, fidgeting with the ends of the tassels.

“Right, scarf!  Well…it looks good on you.  The red, I mean.  It matches your lipstick.”

This smile was more genuine.  “Thanks.  Nice of you to notice.”

Okay, so maybe she _could_ stay long enough for an appetizer.  Her stomach rumbled in agreement.

“So, um – what do you like to do for fun?”

“Hmm?”

Frederick seemed determined to make up for his earlier outburst, hands clasping on the table and leaning forward to prove his interest.  “You told me about your job, but I’m sure grading can’t take up _all_ your time, right?” 

Clara fiddled with the menu.  “No.  No, it doesn’t.  I um…”  She cleared her throat lightly.  “Actually, I sort of travel.  A bit.”

“Really?  Like day trips and things?  Pop off to the countryside for weekends?”

“Well, sometimes.  And sometimes, I go a - _bit_ further than that.  Other countries and - time zones.  That sort of thing.”

“Ooh, you mean like Asia?  Or do you stay on the continent?”

“Well, I’ve traveled on the continent.  Like, this one time I went to Vienna for the world premiere of - a production.  Of an opera.”  _That definitely wasn’t in the 18 th century._  “But also places in Asia.”

Frederick’s head bobbed up and down enthusiastically.  “I’ve heard Asia’s brilliant.  My mate Gareth and his husband John just returned from their honeymoon to Cambodia.  They said it was amazing, like a – ‘a Thailand without the tourists.’  Have you been to Cambodia?  Or Thailand even?”

Clara’s smile was tight.  “No, can’t say that I have.  I mostly go to these tiny islands no one’s ever heard of.  I have this…friend who plans all our trips.  I sometimes don’t even know where I’m going till we get there, actually.”  The Doctor’s advice on footwear for the swamps of Frettalaiku was about the most advance planning she’d ever received from him.  

“Oh, that’s the best, isn’t it?  And that’s good you travel with a mate – then you’ve got someone to take photos of you doing all the mad things you’d never do by yourself.”  He laughed heartily, shaking his head. 

Clara fought to keep her smile firmly in place. 

He went on.  “Or the food you’d never admit to tryin’ – like this trip I took with my mates Thomas and Russ, they got me to try duck kidneys after they got a few pints in me.  And there I was, gobbling them up like they were chips, with Russ snappin’ photos all over the place.  Then after they watched me eat the whole plate, they brought the waitress out and she told me that duck kidneys are actually _duck testicles_!  Can you believe that?!”  He shook his head again, laughing to himself.  “Of course, I’m sure you’ve eaten _much worse_ , with all the traveling about!  But at least you’ve got a mate to share in all the mad adventures, laugh with at the end of the day over a pint or whatever they’re serving there, right?”

She finally conceded defeat, dropping her head so he wouldn’t see the shine in her eyes.  “Right…”

_“But I wanted to take photos!”_

_The Doctor eyed her from just inside the stall.  “What for?”_

_“Because I’m covered in glittery, sparkly, multi-coloured…stuff and it’d be funny.”  Clara appraised herself, smirking.  Her shirt looked like someone had tie-dyed it whilst on speed, and her once-black tights were a fabulous multitude of pinks and magentas.  Apparently Phraganzi dust was like beet juice that way, the darker hues leaving more of a stain.  “It looks like a Pride Parade threw up on me.  And anyway, you made me keep my mobile in the TARDIS.”_

_“Which would be useless now if it had come in contact with the Phraganzi dust – highly corrosive. That flimsy casing wouldn’t have stood a chance.”_

_“Well, fine, but – can’t we just sneak through?”  Clara gave him her most winning smile. “You can distract the security guards or whatever, and I’ll make a run for it.  Another win for my short stature, right?”_

_He had his hand underneath a giant neon purple plastic orb at the end of the green tubing, meant to serve as their supposedly “obligatory” shower.  “Clara-”_

_“Or I distract the security guard or whoever’s posted out there, and you make a run for it.”  She tilted her head to the side a bit.  “Please, Doctor?  C’mon, I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”_

_“The worst that can happen?”  He turned to her, eyes blazing.  “Other than the alarms going off, the security guards detaining us for questioning, getting fined for violating the local laws, and being forever banished for contaminating holy ground, we would be signing the death sentence of the native plants of the area, highly revered for their healing properties and thus condemning the population of the surrounding villages to protracted illnesses and possibly avoidable deaths.”  He waved a hand vaguely.  “But I’m sure your Twitter account or your – your Pinterest board – will suffer more if you don’t commemorate your moment as - Rainbow Brite.”_

_Clara swallowed, a harsh stinging in her eyes.  She wrapped her arms around herself, eyeing the neon yellow-coloured plastic orb in her stall protruding from the wall like some malevolent alien flower.  “Fine.”_

_The Doctor swung his arm around, indicating all of the empty stalls lining the walls, the rows upon rows of green tubing and the various coloured plastic orbs at the end.  It was like some bizarre modern art garden.  “You have your pick, if you don’t like that one.”_

_As if her preference for colour was her main protest._

_“This one’s fine.”  Her tone was flat._

_The Doctor stuck his hand underneath the showerhead, from which a thick, opaque substance had started to gush._

_She curled her lip in disgust.  “So - not water, then.  But we’re supposed to shower in it?”_

_The Doctor was silent for a bit, letting the substance flow over his hand.  “It’s a mixture of decontaminant, a chemical that neutralises the corrosive effect of the Phraganzi and - something else I can’t remember.”_

_Clara sighed.  “Great. A bath of thick, mucous-like chemicals and decontaminant.  This should be fun.”_

_He was silent for a moment, eyes fallen shut.  When he spoke, his tone was softer.  “It actually…it feels good.”_

_“Ooookay.  Well, whatever floats your-”_

_“No, really, just…just try it.  Try putting your hand underneath.”_

_She squeezed her hands closer to her chest in stubborn refusal._

_“I promise you, it feels…it feels good.”  He was looking at her openly now, the usually harsh creases about his eyes smoother, the arch of his brows softening.  “Trust me, Clara.”_

_She took a deep breath, steeling herself.  Then she chanced an upturned palm forward, offering her flesh to the liquid as though it would just as soon bite her as cleanse her._

_The first touch felt odd, thicker and more slippery than water.  But after a few seconds, she noticed a warm, pleasant, tingling sensation._

_The Doctor’s arm was now wet up to his elbow.  “If you get your whole hand underneath, you’ll start to feel it.”_

_“Think I already do, Doctor.”_

_“No, you’ll…you’ll feel what I’m talking about.”  There was a strange fire in his eyes, as if he somehow needed her to do this, to feel what he was describing.  As if nothing else mattered to him at that moment._

_Well…maybe he just wanted to soften the blow of his earlier outburst, make this more enjoyable for her.  She shot him a questioning look, and he nodded.  So she moved her hand in further, wet up to her wrist, then bravely let the substance fall over the rest of her arm, sluicing off her bicep and leaching colour from her shirt._

_“Feels good…doesn’t it?”_

_There was an odd catch to his voice now, but she was too focused on the sensation of millions of tiny fingers, prodding at and rubbing her arm, nudging all of the places that were stressed or wound tightly.  “Ohh.”  She turned so she was fully underneath the spray, letting it hit her back.  A breathy sigh escaped her lips. “Yeah…right there.”  She let it massage and knead at the knots that she had given up all hope of eradicating from the landscape of her shoulder blades, what she had assumed were permanent fixtures in her musculature.  She dropped her head, exposing the back of her neck.   Slowly, miraculously, she could feel every one of her muscles unwind, uncoil, and breathe at last, prompting a moan of relief from her.  Finally, she threw her head back, giving herself over to it completely, shielding her eyes and mouth.   It massaged the crown of her head, the muscles in her temples, and gently beat away all the tension in her forehead.  A long groan sounded from her throat, muffled by her hands, and it must have reverberated off the stall walls because she could have sworn she heard it being echoed back at her, if inexplicably pitched deeper._

_Then she remembered where she was - and who she was with. It was enough to startle her eyes open, stepping away just before it could hit the sensitive areas of her face._

_She could feel the weight of the Doctor’s gaze on her as she smoothed her wet hair back from her face, wringing it out.  She finally stole a glance his way, but he quickly averted his eyes and stepped out of his stall, shaking himself out vigorously._

_Clara let out an utterly contented sigh, leaning against the wall of his stall, limbs like jelly.  “I don’t even know what that was, but honestly, you could probably ask me anything right now and I’d say yes.”_

_“Are you finished?”  The Doctor looked like he was trying to squeeze the life out of his shirt, knuckles turning white with the effort._

_“Yeah, I’m good.”  The words drawled lazily out of her.  She stuck out her toe, smiling as it caught at the pinwheel of colours swirling down the drain in his stall.  “Pretty,” she decided._

_“Good,” he replied, shoving past her roughly.  “Because we need to move on.  We can’t stand around here all day.”_

_Normally, such an abrupt switch to a curt tone would irk her, but she could only muster the energy to find it puzzling.  “I’m ready when you are, Doctor.  I told you, you could probably ask me to do anything you…”_

_But he was already several feet ahead of her, a distance he successfully maintained for the rest of their trip._

“Clara?  Did you want to get something?”

Her head snapped up.  “Hmm?”

“It’s like the third time you’ve looked at the menu, so I thought maybe you were hungry.  We could get a starter if you want – anything look good to you?”

“Um…”  She hadn’t _really_ studied the menu, and it might look odd if she read it over for the fourth time.  She passed it to him.  “I’m good with whatever – you pick.”

Their drinks arrived without much fanfare, though their waiter didn’t miss the opportunity to peer through those bloody spectacles again when Frederick ordered them some potstickers and a side of chips.  After their waiter had departed Frederick spent the next several minutes making up drink names that rhymed with “flapper,” as if to somehow defend his earlier error.  She found his devotion to the little game slightly odd, but then he informed her that his mate Thomas was a bartender and was always trying to come up with new drink names.  Apparently, Frederick was extremely useful in this capacity, especially given his knowledge of the clientele.  Clientele, she learned, that included him as a regular.

“Oh.  So you go there a lot, then?”

“All the time.  I’m practically a permanent fixture there on the weekends, especially when there’s a match on.”

“Right, a match!  So you play football or - is it rugby?”

“Every once in a while, sure, but we mostly just watch.”

“Oh.”  She set her glass down.  “We?”

“Me and my mates.  We all grew up around there, and most of us haven’t left, so – why go someplace else?  I mean – I’ve got everything I need right there:  the pub, my mates, couple of pints, the match on.  And my mum runs a shop in the square, so I’ll pop over and see her.”  He shook his head, his smile easy.  “She’s always tellin’ me to piss off and quit botherin’ her, but I know she secretly likes it.”     

Clara gave him a smile perfected from years of forcing it onto her face whenever the subject came up.  “That’s nice.”

“So are you close with your mum?”

She didn’t even blink.  “I was, yeah.  Before she passed.” 

Her admission worked like gravity on his features, wiping the smile off his face and replacing it with that look she was all too familiar with.  That mixture of horror, embarrassment, and pity.  “Oh…” he stuttered.  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t –”

“It’s okay.  It was a while ago, nearly ten years now.  I’m okay.”

His visible grappling for a subject change was edging towards painfully awkward.  “So uh, you didn’t tell me about your most recent trip!”

She caught herself before her eyes could roll skyward.  “Really, Frederick, it’s okay –”

“No, no, I really want to hear about it!  I mean, you haven’t told me about too many of the places you’ve visited, and you know _I_ never go anywhere, right?  So I’d love to hear about it!  Really!”

She considered him, unable to decide if his overenthusiasm had nudged into endearing territory, or if it was still just painfully awkward.  “Well, okay.  If you _really_ want to know…”

“I do!  I’m sure you’ve got loads and loads of stories, too!”  He accentuated his over eagerness with another lean forward.  “So what was your most recent trip?  Did you go to Asia?”

“I did, actually.”  She mentally congratulated herself on looking this one up in case she was asked about it.  “I went to India for the Festival of Colours.  The Holi.”

“Ohh, I’ve heard that’s brilliant!”  He pounded his fist on the table, nearly sending the contents of her drink over the sides.  “I’ve been telling Gareth he’s _got_ to take John – coming out of something looking like a Pride Parade lost its lunch on ‘im?  He’d _love_ it!”

Clara giggled.  “That’s what _I_ said!  See?  You get it!”  She pushed a finger at him.  “That’s why I wanted to take photos!”

Frederick’s mouth dropped open in shock.  “What?  You didn’t get any photos?!”

And just like that, she deflated.  “No, no, we didn’t.”  She cleared her throat.  “We uh, had to leave our mobiles at the hotel.  Y’know, so they didn’t get ruined.”

“But aren’t there places to buy disposable cameras?  I mean – they still have those, right?”

“Uh – they ran out.  And, there were a lots of – people there, and it was a bit chaotic, and by the time we got back…”

“But couldn’t you have taken the photos then?”

“No, we um – he wanted to get cleaned up first.”

There was a long pause.  “Oh.” A very fake smile appeared on his face.  “So you, uh, you travel with a bloke, then?” 

“I really wouldn’t call him a bloke - he’s a lot older than me.  Really.  People sometimes mistake him for my _grandfather_ ,” she muttered.

His nod was robotic.  “Uh-huh.”

“And –” she went on, “he’s not even really so much a proper mate as a – colleague, I s’ppose.  I mean, we don’t really do things that mates do together, we don’t really – we _aren’t_ really…”  She swallowed.

“Colleague?  You mean, he’s from work?”

Well, _that_ was a brilliant idea.  “Yeah.  Yeah!  He was a – principal there for a while, but then he retired and started traveling.  On his own.  Not married, no family, and he – knew I liked to travel, and that’s how it started.”

This nod was slightly more fluid.  “Okay.”

“And he gets really great deals and plans all the trips and I don’t have to worry about any of that, so – it works.  It’s a great arrangement, really.  I get to see all these places I’d never see otherwise, do all these amazing things – and he doesn’t have to travel alone.”

Their starters arrived then, and the conversation turned mercifully away from her travels with the Doctor.  She peppered Frederick with questions about his life, but there wasn’t a whole lot for him to say:  he really wasn’t kidding when he’d declared that he had all he needed and didn’t see a reason for leaving it.  Or doing much else, for that matter.  He went for a smoke, and she finished her second drink, nerves on edge.  When she politely declined a third drink, he didn’t look terribly surprised.  Neither did the waiter when he asked for their check. 

She accepted the offer to walk her home, but when he offered her his arm, she merely shifted her clutch more tightly to her chest, shaking her head with a breezy “I’m good, thanks.” 

They walked mostly in silence, though Frederick tried to make conversation about the patterns on the street lamps and the pronunciation of some of the street names.  Clara managed one half-smile and a few affirmative responses, but mostly stared straight ahead, her mouth a stubborn straight line.

Like she was coming back from a funeral, and not a date.

They arrived at her front step, exchanging vague promises to meet up again.  When he leaned in, she deliberately proffered her cheek in lieu of receiving that touch she had been so desperately craving.  Thankfully he beat a hasty retreat after that, and she was finally alone.

She stumbled through her dark flat, finding her way to her bedroom, and closed the door with a weary sigh. 

She refused to let loose the scream that was crawling its way up her throat.

Dating was _exhausting_ , and she’d merely forgotten that.  That’s all it was. 

It was confusing; it was frustrating; it was the promise of something held dangling before you, the promise of something that might make you smile or laugh or give you that warm, tingly feeling all over - that then vanished before your eyes. 

Or was cruelly snatched back.

It was time for bed.

Dropping her clutch on her desk, she fumbled for the light switch, noting the dark form seated on her bed a beat too late to stifle her yelp.


	3. Chapter 3

“Doctor!”  She gave a start, hand flying to her chest.  “God, you scared me!  What are you doing here?  You know it’s still _this_ Thursday, right?  It’s not next Thursday yet.”

He was eyeing her curiously, hands awkwardly held behind his back.  “Yes, I know.  How was your date?”

Clara blinked.  “Um…fine,” she stammered.  “I mean, he was nice, I guess.”  She dropped her wrap on the desk.  “What’s going on?”

He looked at her for a moment before he withdrew his hands from behind his back and revealed the translator he’d given to her before he changed. 

Clara’s eyes widened, flicking to it and then back up to him.  “What are you doing with that?”

“You still have it, I see.”

She swallowed.  “Well yeah.  I didn’t get rid of it.”

He stroked one of its sides with the tip of his finger.  “Do you listen to it?”

Clara shifted, suddenly keenly aware of her uncomfortable heels and her desire to be rid of them.  “Yeah.”  She sat down on the chair, unstrapping them and flinging them to the floor, one at a time. 

“Often?”

She massaged her foot, shrugging nonchalantly.  “I dunno…sometimes.”

There was the click of a button and his previous self’s voice started streaming from it.  It was cued to the beginning of the passage that always caused her to blush, especially with the way his gravelly voice deepened as he described the things he’d wanted to _do_ with her. She couldn’t help the way her breath hitched as the Doctor let it run a few more seconds before stopping it abruptly.  “You know it pretty well, then.”

She shook her head.  “What is this about?”

“You know it so well, you even knew which section it was.” 

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re blushing.”

She crossed her arms, bristling.  “ _You’re_ the one who made it, Doctor.  You can’t blame me for something your previous self did.”

“I’m not blaming you.”

“So what’s this about then?”

He looked thoughtful.  “You’ve listened to this recording so many times that you know every word, but you’ve never asked _me_ about it.  I suppose I wanted to know why.”

Clara frowned.  “Ask you about it?  Why would I need to do that?  Everything still translates okay.”

“Yes, but…”  His long fingers moved back and forth across his temple as though massaging a thought.  “So you’ve never been curious then?”

“About?”

“Whether any of it is still true?”

She couldn’t help the sound that escaped her mouth.  “Don’t need to ask about that.”

“You don’t?”

“’Course not.”  She got up and retrieved her wrap, folding it into quarters, her attention mercifully diverted for the moment. 

“And why is that?”

She fingered the ends of one of the tassels, threading them through her fingers.  “I know it isn’t.” 

He was silent, his usual means of communicating confirmation.  Then:

“Do you?”

It wasn’t the question itself but his tone – so very soft, almost hushed – that halted her motions.  “Yeah.”  She cleared her throat.  “Yeah,” she replied more firmly.  “And it’s okay, Doctor.  I know that things have changed between us, and I accept that.”  She gave a little self-conscious laugh.  “Why do you think I went on that date tonight?”

“How do you know things have changed?  You’ve never asked me.”

She shot him an incredulous look.  “Because it’s obvious.  I mean, hearing those things you said – y’know, before you changed – none of it really – I dunno – surprised me?  Cause before - it was pretty obvious.  The way you were with me, I mean.  Okay, except for maybe the bits about everything you um, _wanted_ with me.”  She felt her face flush, and she busied herself with tugging at her earrings, undoing their clasps and dropping them on the desk behind her.  “Can’t say I guessed any of that.  But the rest – yeah.”

“You keep saying it was obvious, but how?” 

Clara took a steadying breath, trying to work out where he was going with all this.  “Well, you were always…near me.  Touching me.  Or close to me.  You admitted yourself that you’d even arranged to arrive in places where you’d have an excuse to.”  Now she bravely met his eyes.  “But then you changed, and – it all went away.  Which is _fine_ , really.  I’m okay with it.”  She gave him a tired smile.

His attention fell to the translator again.  “You’re usually the curious type, Clara.  Wouldn’t you rather have facts than operate entirely on assumptions?”

Her gaze hardened.  “I told you, I don’t need -”

“Or maybe you just don’t want to hear it.”

Her chin lifted defiantly, the challenge unmistakable.  Their eyes locked for a few long seconds before Clara capitulated, throwing up her hands in defeat.  “Fine.  _Clearly_ this is something you want to talk about, and for some reason you _absolutely have to_ talk about it now, so whatever I have to do so I can go to sleep – I’ll do.” 

She might’ve gone on, but there was something wrong about the Doctor’s smile:  it was tinged with a shroud of sadness or nostalgia.  Her snarky reply shouldn’t have made him look wistful.

“Okay,” she said, her tone softened just a touch.  “So – what is it you want me to ask?”

“You’re asking me about the message I left you.  Whether anything I said is still true.”

“Right.”

“And I promise, Clara…”  There was definitely a wistful sadness settling into his face now.  “After tonight, we never have to talk about this again.  In fact, I’d prefer we didn’t.”

“You and me both,” she muttered, shifting in her chair.  “So – Doctor.”  She looked at him steadily.  “Is any of what you said in that message to me still true?”

“Yes.”

“What?  Really?”  Her mind raced as it replayed the message, combing through it for something she might possibly have missed in the thousand times she’d listened to it.  “Which parts?”

He stood up and replaced the translator on her nightstand, staying there as he stared at it thoughtfully.  “I’d forgotten about everything I’d said that day,” he mused.  “I made some very _impassioned_ declarations.”

She nodded, casting her eyes downward as her cheeks reddened again.  “Yeah, you did.”

“Yes, I did,” he repeated softly.  “So, it’s only fair…”  He gave a world-weary sigh before turning back to her, hands jammed into his pockets.  “Which parts are still true?  All of them.”

Clara huffed.  “What?”

The Doctor just looked at her, silent as the grave.

Silent as if he was confirming something that had been said, but –

“You’re joking, right?”  Her smile started to falter.  She waited for his punchline – for his _gotcha_! – for the “except…”

But he said nothing, his gaze almost mournful.         

“Doctor.” 

He gave a slight shake of his head.  “No.  I’m not joking.”

Maybe he hadn’t listened to the whole message.  Maybe his Gallifreyan was rusty, and he’d forgotten the meaning of a word…or fifty. “All of them?  _Everything_ you said is still true?  You still feel _exactly_ the same?  You still _want_ –”

“Yes.”  He silenced the end of her sentence with a meaningful look.

She gaped at him.  “What?  No…no - you’ve been so different.  I mean you – you don’t treat me the same way or take me to the same kinds of places – and half the time I don’t think you even care what happens to me!  And you _never_ touch me.  You don’t even go _near_ me anymore!  And when you do, you act like it _disgusts_ you, like you _hate_ it!”

His hands jerked within his pockets, as if recreating one of those times.  “It doesn’t disgust me.  And I don’t act that way because I hate it, Clara.”

“Then _why_?”

He struggled to maintain their eye contact and lost.  “Because I _don’t_ hate it….because I like it.”  He paused.  “A lot.”

“You… _like_ it.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Yeah, I heard what you _said,_ but I’m honestly wondering if maybe you’ve actually finally gone senile in your old age.”

Her age-related jab prompted a grimace from him, but he didn’t fire back.  “You don’t believe me.”

“How could I?  I dunno…I honestly don’t know _what_ to believe.  All this time… _all_ this time, and you never said anything.  You never let on – you never…”  She trailed off, her mind racing too fast for her words to keep up. 

“I didn’t think you’d be this upset.”

This only fanned the flames of her ire.  “You didn’t think I’d be upset?”  She was practically shaking.  “So let me get this straight, yeah?  You left me that message – said all those things, then you _snogged_ me like your life depended on it, and then you changed.  Started acting different.  Started behaving like none of what you’d said or felt or did was in any way a part of you – like _none_ of that was you anymore.  Not even after the -”  She had to take a moment, unable to keep her voice from shaking now.  “Not even after the Gruhflane.”

He winced.  “Clara…”

She pinned him with her glare, furious tears in her eyes.  “Got an explanation for that, Doctor?  Why I had to _beg_ you to hug me?  After the _hell_ I went through on Oalogtu?”  One streaked down her face.  “And even when you finally did, it was like you couldn’t stand it.  Like you couldn’t wait to get away from me, and yet you’re telling me now that it was because you _liked_ touching me?!”  Her face was wet now as she strode towards him, fully aware that he was backed against the bed with nowhere to go.  “ _That doesn’t make any sense_!”

“I _wanted_ you to move on,” he shot back.  “I wanted you to date men your age – you _should_ be dating men your age, Clara.”

She brought her hands up to her head, scrunching them against her temples.  “No – you – _what_ does that have to do with hugging me?!  I needed a _friend,_ Doctor – you couldn’t even be a friend to me??”

“No,” he replied quietly.  “And that’s why I didn’t.”

Her arms wrapped around herself, trying to summon the memory of his embrace that she’d once been so accustomed to – one that was so familiar to her she’d never have imagined it could vanish so quickly.  “When I came back from Trenzalore, from your Tomb – the last time I went through something like that, you… _held_ me like you’d never let me go.”

Something between nostalgia and regret passed over his face.

She walked up to him slowly, voice softened by the lump lodged in her throat.  “But if what you say is true, if you really still…”  She could barely bring herself to say the next word, and it came out choked  -“ _love_ me…as much as you did then…then _why_ couldn’t you just hug me?  Just once – when you knew I needed it?”

“Because,” he began, his own voice trembling with emotion.  “Because I could never have hugged you just _once_.  Because if I had held you…I might really _never_ have let you go.”

“And what would have been so bad about that?”  She whispered.

He started to say something but thought better of it, casting his glance off the side and shaking his head.     

“Well…”  She wiped at her face with the back of her hand.  “Then you owe me a hug.  I mean – you owe me a _lot_ more than that, but for now, you owe me a hug.”  The look in her eyes dared him to protest as she slowly laced her arms around his midsection, waiting for him to follow suit.

At first he was as warm and comfortable as a marble statue, weighing her further with doubt.  But then he gave in, arms falling around her shoulders lightly. 

“A _hug_ , Doctor.  That means you actually have to do more than just -”

”Yes, I’m aware,” he retorted, sliding one arm higher and the other lower. 

She rested her cheek against his chest, hearing that familiar double-thump of his hearts, a sound she hadn’t heard in far too long – and that she’d given up hope of ever hearing again.  Rubbing her head back and forth, she squeezed tighter, feeling him practically vibrate with tension.  Honestly, this wasn’t helping.  If he was trying to prove that he was still the same man who’d shown her eleven times a day just how smitten he was with her, he was failing miserably.  She was back to actively questioning his sanity, one of a few possibilities for what seemed nothing more than an elaborate charade, when all of a sudden, she felt it.

It was subtle at first, just a light pressure of his fingers between her shoulder blades and at the small of her back, a whisper of something.  Like he was actually trying to compensate, turn this into a proper hug where you _held_ the person.  But then – a slow tightening of the muscles, an increase of pressure, and – the unmistakable digging sensation of his fingers as they dragged across, hands moving in opposite directions, finding the edge of her shoulders and the tip of her waist.  The slight tremor to his exhalation as he did so…

But…this couldn’t _actually_ be happening, could it?  Was her mind playing tricks on her?  She tested her theory, letting a hand move lazily up his back, stroking it gently.  Then she lifted her cheek from his chest, letting her head come forward, raising it the slightest bit to brush her nose against his lapel. 

He went absolutely still.

She froze, too, ready to offer a hasty excuse and extricate herself.  But then – the pressure of his fingers again, digging enough that it almost felt like a grasp.  His exhalation _so_ close to a gasp.

She didn’t know what she was doing anymore, as her fingers seemed to curve of their own volition, letting her change the stroking to a light glide of her short nails up his back.

And that was definitely a shudder now.

“Clara…”

Her name shouldn’t have sounded quite so enticing – it should’ve broken the spell; her name uttered like a warning, because it _was_.

She raised her head then and looked into his face – and that should’ve broken the spell, too, because this was _not_ the face she preferred.  But it was the face that loved her, the face that loved her just like the last face; that just like the last face, she was the windsong of his hearts – that just like the last face…

…he wanted her.

She didn’t know what she was doing anymore as she withdrew her hands from behind his back, as she reached for his lapels, as she pulled herself up and him down, as she closed her eyes and kissed him.

Their lips met and stayed there, unmoving, as though neither of them could think of anything else to do – or were too overwhelmed to do much else.  His lapels grasped in her white-knuckled grip, his hands moving from her back to cup her elbows, his hold just as fierce, as though he were caught between pulling her into him and pushing her back. 

They broke apart abruptly, breathing shakily into the air between them.  He opened his mouth to say something, but she laid a hand on his chest, silencing him.

“You’re not done yet,” she informed him, feeling slightly giddy at the command in her voice.  She gave him a light shove, and he fell back onto the bed.

“Clara, we’re not –”

“Relax – I just need you to shove over.”

He didn’t budge.  “Why?”

“Because you’re going to hold me properly – so lie back.”

His fingers drummed against the side of the bed like he was considering.  Then he gave a small grunt of reluctant agreement, scooting himself back.  He tried and failed to maintain a semi-upright position, finally conceding to the arrangement of her pillows. 

She perched on the edge of the bed whilst he got comfortable, then slid herself up to join him.  Laying on her side, she folded herself alongside him, hand draping across his chest, head falling onto the spot over one of his hearts. 

But she quickly discovered that there would be no holding as long as her hair was populated with hairpins.  Several attempts to reposition her head only resulted in other edges of the long, hard metal pressing into her skull, until she finally had to sit up and fish her fingers behind her head to locate the culprits.

“What’s wrong?”

“Just gimme a minute.” 

She really needed a mirror for some of these, especially with such an elaborate up-do.  There also seemed to be about four times as many as she’d originally put in… 

“Let me help you with those.”

There was something else about how they’d be here all night otherwise, but his fingers joined hers, working at the pins and dropping them onto her nightstand with a soft _clink_.  They worked in tandem for a while, but then their fingers met as they both pulled at the same pin.  This tug of war lasted a few seconds until Clara realised what was transpiring.

“Doctor, I’ve got it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous – you can’t see what you’re doing.”

Perhaps it was his offer to help, brusque style notwithstanding, or perhaps it was the feel of his fingers against her scalp, but whatever the reason she let her hands fall.  She felt him shift closer behind her, muttering something about how now he could _finally_ see what he was doing, and then he was quiet again.  Quiet except for the sound of his breathing, which fluttered across her neck from time to time as he moved from one side to the other.  She almost gave him a reminder to be careful not to tug too hard, to be gentle – but then he started to uncoil each of her curls and the reminder died somewhere in her throat.

For a man of his mind, his genius mind, who had lived and died as many lifetimes as he had, it seemed entirely unlikely that he would take such time and care with an action as simple as unrolling every section of her pinned curls.  Especially when that action was completely unnecessary without the presence of the pins to keep it in place.

Yet there he was:  slowly, _painstakingly_ unraveling every curl, setting it carefully to the side before beginning another section; threading that strand through his long fingers, letting them trail to the bottom of it, knuckle just grazing her neck every time. 

Making her breath catch every time.

Which she knew he’d heard.  Every time.

Somehow, impossibly, he eased his tempo as he undid more and more of her hair, his pace so agonizingly slow that by the time it was all hanging down her neck, her mouth had dropped open and her eyes had fallen shut.  He ran his fingers through one last time, gathering it together in his hands and sliding it off to the side of her head, baring one half of her neck.

Which now clued her into their proximity, if the hot breath she felt there was any indication.

Like the inexorable force of a magnet, she felt herself leaning back into him, she:  the positive pole; he the negative one.  Centimetre by centimetre, she let her head drop to the side of her gathered hair, ear cushioned by the mounds of unraveled curls.  Leaving her neck completely exposed.

There was no change at first, as the invitation lay there completely unfulfilled, and the seconds ticked on with them locked in this stalemate.  She slowly opened her eyes, ready to say something or move or otherwise pretend that this wasn’t what it had become, when all of a sudden there was the sensation of a flood of warm breath on her neck, making her shiver, and then – finally – his lips.

A breathy exhale escaped her mouth at the first press of them, tentative - like a feather against her skin.  The next was in a different spot, closer to the nape of her neck, along her hairline, accompanied by the light pressure of his fingertips curling around her shoulders.  The third kiss fell along her pulse point, lasting a fraction of a second longer than the last, his waft of breath trailing along towards her ear.  She could feel him pause there, and then, another kiss, more open-mouthed than the previous two, just under her earlobe.

She couldn’t help her little sigh, which turned into a gasp as he stayed there, hot breath washing over her lobe.  When she felt the wet tip of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, she nearly lost it, whole body shuddering as she unthinkingly reached a hand behind her to grab at his neck, bringing him flush to her back.  He uttered something close to a growl at the contact, expelling hot air on her ear again, which only made her arch her back into him.

For some reason, this stopped the delicious exploration of her ear so that instead of his tongue, she got words.

“Clara, we can’t do this.”

It seemed he was destined to spout several nonsensical things tonight. 

“Why not?” came her breathy reply.

He gave a long sigh, annoyingly closing his mouth so that she felt none of it.  “Because I meant what I said.  You should date men your age.”

She teased the back of his neck with her fingertips.  “Not really thinking about other men right now, Doctor…”  She heard him let out a gasp as she let a nail dig in a bit.

“I mean it.  This can’t go any further.”

She smiled a sultry smile he couldn’t see, pitching her voice low.  “Then stop,” she taunted, letting her fingers continue their dance.

All of a sudden his fingers fell from her shoulders, and he shifted away from her.

Her eyes snapped open at the loss of heat and contact.  “I wasn’t serious!”

He eyed her from the other side of the bed.  “I was.  I’ll hold you, but we can’t do any more than that.”

She scoffed, turning back to face him, crossing her arms.  “And why not?”

“I already told you why.”

“Yeah, I heard that rubbish answer.  But even if it’d been me instead of my Gallifreyan echo when you were at your youngest, you’d _still_ have been about 575 years too old for me.”

He folded his hands calmly atop his chest.  “All the more reason to stop, then.”

She let out a noise of exasperation.  “ _Or_ how about I should be the one to decide who I choose to date!”

“The fact that I’m trying to decide for you should clue you in to how bad an idea it would be to pursue anything further with me.”

She had to stop herself from punching the bed at his smug tone, hands clenching into fists at how easily he’d flipped the tables and wormed his way under her skin.  Scooting herself back again, she propped herself on her elbow, studying his face. 

He held his arms out in invitation.  “Where were we?”

She ignored him, raising a finger to trace the lines on his forehead, the corners of her mouth lifting when the first contact caused his eyes to slide shut, a breath escaping from his lips. 

“What are you doing?”

She continued her exploration, letting her finger learn the lines and grooves in his forehead, his temples, his cheeks…  “Never been this close to your face before – not this one, anyway.  I think it’s one of your more interesting ones, actually.”  She let it graze over his chin, stubble pricking her finger.  “Chin’s a lot more proportional.”  Her smile was bittersweet. 

His eyes flew open, seeking hers out.  “Do you miss the old me?”

It felt like a trick question.  She sighed, cupping his face earnestly.  “I missed _you_ , Doctor.”  She kissed him in the centre of his forehead, like he used to.  “I missed being close to you…”  She kissed his temple, moving slowly down the side of his face, retracing the path her finger had taken.  His leathery skin was actually surprisingly soft and supple.  She let her kisses become lazier as she moved to his cheeks, drawing what sounded like a sigh of contentment from him.  “I missed knowing you’d be there for me…”  She laid a trail of kisses down the side of his jaw, kissing around his less prominent chin, letting her lips come tantalizingly close to his.  “I missed being loved by you…” 

With his eyes shut again, she chanced a kiss on his lips, soft and no longer than a few seconds, seeing if he would react.  When he didn’t bolt or push her to the other side of the bed, she tried again, letting her lips stay there a little longer, until she finally felt his move under hers, warming to the kiss.  It stayed slow and lazy, nothing hurried about it, but then she seized on an opportunity to dart her tongue forward, finding the edge of his, and he hissed into her mouth, hands going to her head.  She let her chest fall onto his, her body needing more friction, one of her hands toying with his buttons.  He wrapped an arm around her waist, then, rolling them over so she was on her back.

She sighed into his mouth as she felt the long length of his body on top of hers at last.  His mouth tore from hers, starting a trail of frantic kisses along the side of her face, finding her neck again and moving lower still.  She clutched the back of his head as he trailed sloppy kisses along her collarbone, the contrast between the light scratch of his stubble and the soft wetness of his tongue making her moan.  She arched her back into him, seeking more contact, trying to send a rather unsubtle message of where, exactly, she wanted his tongue next.  He seemed to get her meaning, head moving lower to where the tops of her breasts spilled out from the cut of her dress, thumbs hooking underneath the straps to pull the top down even further.  But the corseted cut of the dress refused to cooperate, so she hastily pushed him off, sitting up so he could access the zipper that ran down the back.

“Here,” she stated breathlessly.  “It’s practically melded to my body, trust me – you have to unzip it.”

His hands automatically went around her back, finding the zipper.  She felt him grasp it between his thumb and forefinger and then, for some reason, he laid his palm flat against it instead. 

“No.”  He turned from her, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his back to her.  He bowed his head, breath still coming fast.  “We can’t do this, Clara.”  

She slid towards him, draping both arms around his chest from behind, chin coming to rest on his collarbone.  “What do I have to do, Doctor…” she began, turning her head so she was nosing his cheek, his ear, her lips following.  “…to convince you that I _want_ this?”  She kissed his cheek softly, moving lower to his ear, nibbling on the sensitive flesh there.  “That I want you?” 

He moaned softly, grabbing onto her arms.  “You don’t.  But I told you…we can’t do this,” he managed in between hisses of breath.

Clara hummed into his ear at that.  “Yeah, you keep saying that…and yet…”  She let a hand trail down his chest, past his navel, running her fingertips over the noticeable bulge in his trousers, smirking at the tell-tale wet spot.  “I think we can.”

He cursed under his breath, grip tightening on her arms as he rocked back into her.  “No,” he choked out, words clearly getting more and more difficult.  “You have to stop.”

Clara made some sort of noncommittal noise, as she was currently far more interested in the space between his neck and his collar, unbuttoning the top button to gain better access.  “So stop me, then,” she purred.

Suddenly he seized her wrists, unhooking her arms from around his chest and pinning them to the bed.  Then he abruptly stood, upsetting her balance so she had to shoot a hand out to prevent herself from falling. 

She gaped at him for the second time that night.  “You can’t be serious.”

He hung his head, but he stayed where he was.  “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head.  “No.”  She stared at his back, burning holes through it, willing him to turn around.  “Doctor.”

Though she could still hear his breathing, there was something final in the sight of his back.  Like a tall, inverted exclamation point, his silver head that stubbornly refused to turn her way the point of it.  Signaling an ending. 

She swung her legs over the end of the bed to get up, but then stopped.  Why should _she_ be the one who had to move?  She was wearing a revealing black dress with spaghetti straps, her hair sexily tousled, cheeks flushed, lips swollen from their kisses, and still breathing heavily. 

She should _NOT_ have to get up.

But she could hear his breathing returning to normal, and he still hadn’t turned around.  He hadn’t moved towards her door, either, but it was becoming clear that the only way to get his attention was to say something he couldn’t ignore. 

What could she say, though?

Sexy invitations clearly weren’t working and throwing empty threats his way would be about as effective as throwing them at a stone wall.  She could plead with him, but now that she knew just what he felt for her and wanted of her, the notion of her _pleading_ with him to rejoin her on her bed was absolute bollocks.

So she couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – get up and she couldn’t think of anything to say. 

She also _would not_ cry.  Despite the beginnings of a lump that had formed in her throat at her frustration – _frustrations_ ….at the ultimately unfulfilling and less than exciting date; at this back-and-forth with the Doctor; at all the time that she’d felt unwanted and unloved – she wouldn’t cry.   

But she had to do _something_.  

Something to get his attention.

Something he couldn’t ignore.

A mad idea struck her.  It was risky…but she was willing to gamble. 

And it’s not like she had anything to lose at this point anyway.

So she slowly shifted, settling onto her back.  She took her time, fanning her hair out, and letting a strap of her dress fall down.  Making just enough noise to pique his interest.

All this time, she’d thought he’d hated touching her, hated even being near her.  And now he’d revealed that it was just the opposite - yet he _still_ refused to be near her now?  _Still_ refused to touch her?

Fine.

She would touch herself, then.


	4. Chapter 4

 “Clara…what are you doing?”

“What does it sound like?”  Her words were breathy, though there was still a clench to her jaw that wouldn’t relax.  She focused all her anger, her months of rejection, her pent-up _frustrations_ into her nimble fingers, moving them around inside her knickers.  Back and forth; up and down.  The occasional circles.  She was plenty wet already; this shouldn’t take long.

He chanced a glance over his shoulder.

“You’re….no, you…you can’t…” 

It was like an invisible thread had materialised between her fingers and his head, which kept jerking back and forth in a quarter turn, then a half turn, and finally, a full turn, the rest of his body following.

Her lips tugged upward at her victory, eyes falling shut.  “It’s my room, my body, and what I want right now.  If it makes _you_ uncomfortable, you’re free to go.” 

She heard the creaking of the floorboards underneath his feet as he probably shifted his weight from side to side, a gesture entirely unusual for a Doctor who always knew what he wanted.  It would’ve been far more fitting of his former self.

Although _that_ face would’ve bolted from the room with a yelp the second he’d figured it out.  Not that she would have ever done this in front of him, of course.

Well…not that she ever thought she’d do this in front of the Doctor, period.  But this wasn’t about _him_.  This was about what _she_ needed; he could bloody well do whatever he wanted.     

And that’s when she felt a weight shift the bed, startling her eyes open and momentarily suspending her motions.

Tiny beads of perspiration had broken out on his forehead, but that was the only indication that the Doctor was in any way affected.   He didn’t look at her face, focusing his gaze instead on the motion of her fingers.

Or perhaps…just the part of the body to which she was administering.

Emboldened by this half-capitulation, she used her next motion to draw her knickers over her hips, letting them rest at her knees.  As if taunting him further with the visual reminder that she was now naked under her dress.

“Care to help me, Doctor?”  She queried casually, her challenge unmistakable.

But he remained motionless, back stiff, hands gripping his thighs.  He swallowed.  Staring. 

“Or maybe you’d like to join me in a different way.”

His hands balled into fists, dragging the material of his trousers with them.  Was she vexing him?  Pestering him?  She smirked, her fingers working a mite faster.  Rubbing the Doctor the wrong way was rubbing her just the right way.  Her smirk widened to a self-satisfied grin.

There was a rustle of fabric as he reached inside his jacket pocket with shaking fingers and withdrew…his sonic?

The sight of it had a paralysing effect, halting her mid-stroke.  Her whole body tensed in a different way, and confusion quickly gave way to distrust. 

“What are you doing?”  It was her turn to ask.

He ignored her question, gripping the instrument and twisting it a few times, his thumb clearly flicking through settings.  He found what he was looking for and nonchalantly rested the sonic on his leg.

“Doctor, what are you –”

She was abruptly cut off as a warm, vibrating pulse hit her, wrenching a gasp from her throat. 

She stared at him in open-mouthed wonder, but he was fixated on his sonic again, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he fiddled with it.  No longer trying to hide what he was doing, he seemed to be testing it, aimed it at her openly – and this time it was a double-pulse.

Clara let out a cry and parted her legs a little, an open invitation for _more, please, yes_ , and she may have voiced these exact thoughts as her fingers slid downward, coming to rest at the tops of her thighs.  Letting him take the reins, but poised to resume should he falter.

Another adjustment – another flick – and a triple-pulse.

She let out a throaty groan, instinctively reaching for him.  As if his touch was what she needed to ground her to reality, to confirm it _was_ reality and she wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating.

But he was seated just shy of her reach, his body betraying little, save for the slight droop of his lower lip as he made yet another adjustment, his breaths audible.  He muttered something as the sonic made a beep of protest, then slapped it in his palm as if to make it obey. 

The next flick was made with something of a flourish, his motion no longer casual.  Then he finally locked eyes with her – and let loose a series of pulses that didn’t end.

They waxed and waned; sometimes single, sometimes double, varying in intensity, in time, in length, in measure.  They pushed Clara to the edge and back again, her legs crooking, hands grabbing (though again, only receiving a handful of bedspread as he stayed just out of her reach), hips rocking, cries intensifying, neck arching until – sweet release at last! – the vibrations were joined by her own as she shook, muscles quivering and quaking, until she quieted and finally looked back at the Doctor.

He’d never looked more terrified.

She wiped the back of her hand across her sweaty brow, giving a few forceful exhalations whilst her breathing calmed.  “That was…” she managed in between breaths.  A surprised and relieved laugh trilled out of her.  “Blimey, that was –”

“Too much.”

He was off her bed like a shot, the sonic pocketed as he paced to the end of her room and back.  “That was too much – too much – I let it go too far.”

Clara wriggled all the way out of her knickers, kicking them off the bed as she rose.  She strolled on jelly-like limbs to her open cupboard door, surveying the contents with a world-weary sigh as the Doctor continued his pacing behind her. 

He hadn’t stopped his muttering, either.  “It’s too late now.  It’s much too late.  It’s just…too late,” he repeated as if the words would magically undo all that had just transpired.

She shook her head sadly, but she couldn’t muster the energy to argue with him again.  “Yeah, well, I’m gonna change.  You can do – whatever you want.”  She drew her hair away from where it clung to her neck so she could get at her zipper, letting her head fall forward. 

The pacing had finally stopped, the Doctor quiet, save for the sounds of his agitated breathing.

She rolled her neck from side to side, working out a kink.  “So like I said – I’m about to _get naked_.  If you don’t wanna see that, then you should leave.  We can talk later.”  She massaged a point at the top of her left shoulder blade, setting a handful of hair off to the side, fingers brushing against the zipper of her dress.  She reached for the zipper –

-and gasped as an arm suddenly enclosed her from behind.  For one tense second, she thought he was trying to physically _stop_ her from changing, even as he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling like it was his last breath of oxygen.  Even as she felt his hot breath on the back of her neck, his mouth grazing her earlobe.

But then she felt her zipper pulling down.

His mouth followed, trailing a series of progressively more open-mouthed kisses down her back.  She braced herself against the door, surprised gasps turning to moans as he followed the parting tines lower and lower, her dress falling in a black puddle around her feet.  He was on his knees now, long fingers latched onto her hips, his mouth sweeping ever lower with clearly no intention of stopping as he came to her arse.  All prior discomfort had apparently evaporated as he only picked up speed, baptising each cheek with a trail of kisses. 

Then he spun her about, the motion entirely unexpected, and Clara grabbed his shoulders to steady herself.  He didn’t miss a beat, peppering her stomach with kisses.  “Like a flower to the sun,” he murmured.  “You are my sun, Clara.”  He started moving lower and Clara let out a mewl of anticipation.  “So I’ll burst into flames – I don’t care.  Spontaneous combustion.”  He shifted, shoving his legs back so his mouth was right over her.  “Watch me burn.”

And then his mouth was on her, one long, slow kiss.  He laved at her, sucking hungrily, growls sounding from his throat to mix with her cries. 

Her limbs already weakened, Clara struggled to stay upright, trying to anchor herself between his shoulders and the cupboard door.  But she was losing her battle, sliding down as the Doctor continued his delicious assault on her.  “Doctor,” she gasped, “can we – _oh_ – maybe move to…”  She jerked her head in the vague direction of her bed, hoping he’d get the message.  “My legs are – _oh God!_ – they’re not gonna…”

Suddenly she was being pulled as he hooked his arms underneath her shoulders and lifted her onto her desk.  Grateful though her leg muscles were, she scrambled for purchase as she knocked her wrap, clutch, earrings and a jar of pens and pencils to the floor, which clattered loudly as they scattered across the floorboards.  The Doctor wasn’t distracted in the slightest, however:  if anything he seemed emboldened as he pulled her to the edge of the desk, hitching her legs over his shoulders. 

But it was too much forward momentum and Clara grabbed at the edges, hard corners cutting into her palms.  “Doctor,” she managed, “I actually – _ohh –_ meant the bed, I’m – _oh GOD –_ I can’t…”

He stopped, peering up at her, laser focus searing in its intensity. 

As a few panicked seconds ticked by, she wondered if she’d ruined everything.  Had she broken the spell?  Would he stop _now_ , of all times?

But then he slowly rose to his feet, the burn cooling a notch or two.  He swooped down, lifting her up again so that she had to wrap her legs around his waist to hold on.  He swung them around towards the bed, but inexplicably stopped at the foot of it.

Clara’s legs protested, the muscles starting to quiver.  “Doctor?”

Though his hold definitely felt sturdy enough to keep her up, it grew minutely tighter.  She heard him inhale, murmuring something she couldn’t quite catch. 

“What was that?”

His only reply was to lay her down, gently, with more control than he’d exhibited up to this point.  She let out a sigh of contentment as her muscles unlocked, finally able to relax.  She reached a hand behind her back and unhooked the clasp of her bra, shoving it off the bed to join her knickers on the floor – leaving herself completely naked under that heated gaze.

He hovered over her, pausing again.  Instead of focusing on her newly exposed skin, he seemed far more intent on her face, reaching a tentative hand out, drawing it across her forehead and catching a handful of her hair between his fingers.  He repeated the gesture several times, spreading it out on her pillow, his other hand joining to work in tandem.  Then he trailed his long fingers down the side of her face, her neck, gliding over her shoulder, down her arm, brushing the pads of his fingers across her palm, around her wrist.  He grasped her hand between his and turned it over, pressing soft kisses between each of her knuckles; then he moved to her other hand and did the same. 

He shifted, leaning over her.  Clara reached for his lapels in an effort to connect with him again, but he evaded her, both hands now trailing up her arms, tracing along her collarbone, curling as they reached her breasts.  He cupped them, lightly kneading, then ran his knuckles over her stomach, around the curve of her hips, flattening as they drew down her legs, palms tracing the muscles in her thighs and calves.  He ended with her feet, thumbs lightly circling her instep.  A ghost of a smile appeared on his face when she giggled at that. 

Was it just a trick of the light?  Or was that a shadow falling over his face?  Regardless, it vanished as his eyes slowly traveled up her body and met with hers.  They stared at each other a moment.

“You okay?” Her smile was tentative.

He immediately dropped his head, exhaling as though her question had caused him unspeakable grief.  “Just taking it all in,” he murmured.

The length of the interlude was starting to make her antsy.  “Do you wanna join me?” she offered.

The Doctor shook his head.  “Not yet.”  Then he leaned forward, clasping her knees, tucking his hands underneath.  He bent over each knee, pressing kisses to both the top and the underside.  Then he knelt at the foot of the bed, hands gripping her upper thighs to finally scoot her back down towards his waiting mouth.

It was like he was starting over from the very beginning – every flick of his tongue a tender stroke, a caress… Little sips, as if he were savouring an expensive brandy.

The new pace was initially frustrating, but Clara gradually relaxed, letting her thoughts disappear.  She finally caught his hands, interlacing her fingers through his and squeezing tight.

_This is the Doctor.  The Doctor is doing this…_

The intimacy of their clench washed over her, and it was enough to throw her head back, eyes falling shut.  The Doctor wanted her.  This was the same man as his previous bowtied self, whose hair would be falling over those green eyes as he knelt before her, whose usually restless fingers would be still in her grasp.  And, at her next cry, he might let out a low chuckle against her and utter a gravelly _ohh, Clara…_

It was enough to send her over the edge as she let out a shuddering cry, answering the image in her mind.  “Ohh, Doctor,” she whispered in reply, opening her eyes to find grey-blue instead of green locked onto hers.

She smiled wide for him, letting out some kind of hiccup as her breathing hitched in an unexpected way.  “That was just…wow, that was…”

She trailed off as he brought a hand to her face, gliding the tips of his fingers across her cheeks.  “You’re crying, Clara.”

“What?  No, I’m not.”  She laughed shakily.  “That’s just sweat.”

“Sweat is leaking from your eyes, then.”

She hastily brushed a hand across her face, confirming that she was, indeed, crying.  “Well, that’s because of you – I mean, that…that was intense.”  She smiled again, fingering his lapel.  “So,” she drew out the word.  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes.”

Something akin to a thrill shot through her.  “Oh, really?  And what’s that?”

He slowly unbuttoned his jacket, shrugging out of it. 

Clara’s heart kicked up a notch, her mouth gone dry.

Then he laid his jacket across her shoulders, pulling it as tightly as it would allow across her chest.  “You can let me hold you.”  He shifted onto his back.  “I believe that was your original request, yes?”

“Yeah, but think you’ve repaid that debt, Doctor.  Twice over, I’d say.”  She smirked.

“Well – then this is what _I_ want.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”  He held his arms out.  “Come lie with me, Clara.  Please?”

Still bewildered, she arranged herself around him, settling onto his chest.  His hand immediately stole to the back of her head, long fingers lightly massaging her scalp.  She sighed into the touch.  “I just don’t want you to think –”

“Hush.  I don’t want _you_ to think,” he countered softly.  “Just relax.”  He continued stroking her hair, thumbs finding her temples.  “No more thinking.  Relax.”

His touch was so soothing, so comforting, his embrace so welcoming, that despite her efforts to voice her insistence that they needed to talk about this, that there were things that should be discussed –

-  she was soon asleep.

* * *

It was 3:37 AM.

That was the first thing Clara noticed.

The second was her head.

_Ow.  OW._

The third was -

_Something’s wrong._

She abruptly sat up in bed, wincing at the motion.  Her vision swam a bit as it felt like her brain banged around inside her skull a few times before stilling.  Rubbing a hand against her temple, she did a quick once-over of her room.

There was hardly anything remarkable about it.  She’d been so eager to get out of her dress she’d uncharacteristically left it on the floor by her cupboard.  The same was true of her bra and knickers, lying together in a heap on the floor.  But her wrap was folded neatly in quarters, her clutch on top, and her earrings glinted in the low light next to the little pile.  So apparently she’d tried to put things away when she got in but soon gave up, shedding her clothing on her way to bed.

But then she’d…apparently changed into a t-shirt.  Or maybe she’d done that before she got to bed?

She flicked her tongue across her teeth experimentally, grimacing at the result.  She’d even been too tired to brush her teeth.

Normally, she would remedy that straightaway, but she groaned in protest when she tried to move her head, stunned by the incessant ringing pain. She conceded defeat and flopped back on her pillow, pressing at her temples. 

Maybe she should try to sleep.

Sighing, she turned over, pulling the sheet up to her chin.  An errant thought hit her, snapping her eyes open:

_The Doctor.  He…_

What about him?

Oh.  Right.  She’d seen him before her date.  Wasn’t going to see him for a week.  At least Frederick hadn’t thought she was going to a funeral.  She huffed.

No, but…wasn’t there something else?

She frowned, flipping onto her back.  Well…he hadn’t reacted to the news of her date.  Maybe that bothered her.

But why?  That was hardly surprising.  Things were different now, and she accepted that.  His lack of acknowledgement was hardly unexpected.

She chanced another look at the clock.  3:42.  She should really sleep.  Sighing, she closed her eyes, and tried to relax.

_But…the Doctor…_

She groaned, pulling the sheet over her head as if she could shield herself from her runaway thoughts.  Out of all the possible worries in her life, _he_ certainly wasn’t going to be the one to keep her up at night.

But the Doctor stubbornly refused to vacate her thoughts, her mind inexplicably clinging to him as she tossed and turned.  When she finally achieved sleep, it was restless and troubled. 


	5. Chapter 5

There was no escape. 

Even after he’d shed his jacket, smelling of freesia – sandalwood – _no_ – shoving it down the chute, and not even waiting for the _hiss!_ _whop! ping!_ that sounded as the bath of chemicals went to work, a sound that used to delight him enough to warrant a kind of “laundry dance” in his former days and that still tugged at the corners of his mouth in this body –

Even after he’d stripped completely, standing in the shower that stayed stubbornly cold, despite his mental and verbal commands that he wanted it hot enough to boil, wanted his skin to gleam, red and raw –

Even after he’d smeared his teeth with the strongest flavour of toothpaste, scrubbed his tongue until it tingled, gargled with extra strength mouth wash developed by the Keraseek, guaranteed to rid your mouth of any taste to the point of numbness –

Clara was everywhere.

There she was, curled up in a chair twice her size in the library, snuggling down into the cushions and the well-worn divots created by all his hours in the same chair; there she was in the corridor, running with him through a wrecked TARDIS, holding tightly to his hand and trusting he would lead them to safety; there she was in the swimming pool, dark hair trailing behind her as she floated on her back and inquired about the constellations overhead; there was she was outside his bedroom door, hand poised mid-air to knock when he’d thrown it open after a brooding sulk, when he’d made _quite clear_ that he was not to be disturbed, and, like usual, she’d refused to listen –

It seemed the Universe had decreed its punishment for him.  After all, what could be more fitting for the crime of taking a part of her mind into his own without her permission? 

Because now she was destined to haunt him.

And unfortunately…the Universe wasn’t the only one determined to punish him.

He hadn’t noticed it at first.  When a strong gust of air rushed at him, pushing him back as he entered the TARDIS – he was so preoccupied with his roiling thoughts that it barely registered.  The strange case of the shower growing progressively _colder_ the more he asked for _hot_ – he attributed to something mucking up the system (and was a momentary distraction to check on the backup water supply commands).  Even when he’d settled in for an activity bound to occupy him, to take up at least half his brain (well, maybe not half – but a good sizable chunk anyway) – rewiring the primary buffer so it didn’t keep making that irritating rattling sound – the shower of sparks didn’t faze him.  Sparks were rather commonplace when it came to repairs after all.

Electrical shocks, however, were a different matter entirely.

He lunged backwards, upsetting his satchel of tools and spilling them every which way.  A singed smell wafted over him, and the roots of his hair tingled.

 “What is it with you?!”  He bellowed, the top of his scalp still burning.  “What’s got you in such a strop?!”

A sharp _snap_ echoed around the room, as an image crackled into existence. The Doctor instinctively held up a hand, shielding himself from those familiar eyes that were completely devoid of their usual spitfire.

“You took Donna Noble’s memory, Doctor,” the Donna image intoned.  “But you took Donna’s memory to save her life.  Whose life were you saving tonight?”

He scoffed, his hand returning to his side.  “ _That’s_ what you’re all huffy about?  I find it _extremely_ difficult to believe that _you_ would have any problem with it.”

The image wavered for a few seconds as if considering.   

“Maybe you’ll listen to someone with the same ridiculous accent, then.”  The image had changed, and Amy Pond stared sightlessly over his head.  “Would that convince you?”

Seeing his two former feisty ginger companions without their proper fire was enough to tug painfully at his hearts as it was.

And he really wasn’t in the mood for _more_ haunting.

So the Doctor knelt down, busying himself with gathering up the scattered tools and stuffing them in his satchel.  “I’m not listening to this.”  He threw them in haphazardly and shoved the satchel back into its compartment.  “Here I was going to do something nice for you, but not if you’re going to carry on like this.”  He stalked up the steps and was met with his former self on the way.

“Does it need to be you, then?”  The tall, bowtie-clad man queried disinterestedly.  “You used to do anything to protect Clara.  What changed?”

The Doctor let out a harsh laugh.  “Oh, I’m _definitely_ not listening to _you_.”  He deliberately walked through the image out of spite.  “And I still protect her – that _hasn’t_ changed,” he muttered defensively over his shoulder.   

The image vanished as soon as he moved past it, and he reached the console without further incident.  It was then he discovered that in his haste to avoid the images (and implied judgment) of his former companions, he’d missed a wrench.  Apparently he’d been gripping it so tightly, its presence hadn’t registered.  He massaged the top of his head with it absentmindedly, the metal cool against his skin. 

Then Clara appeared and he nearly dropped it on his head.

“What will happen when she finds out?”  The image asked detachedly.  The TARDIS apparently hadn’t updated her files.  Clara stood with hands casually tucked in her jacket pockets, with that red bag slung over one shoulder.  She looked far too young, wide, innocent eyes staring at a spot behind him.  But her hair…

The Doctor swallowed.  This Clara’s hair hung in ringlets over her shoulders, just like the curls he had run through his fingers –

“Do you think she’ll forgive you?  Do you think she’ll stay?”

He whirled on the image, brandishing the wrench.  It blinked at him, unconcerned.  “ _You’re_ certainly not going to tell her.  And why do you care so much all of a sudden – you used to hate her!”

The Clara image looked bored.  “Her existence was once a time-space anomaly.  Now she is just another stray.”

“So if she’s just another stray, why do you care so much?  Hmm?”

“I worry what you will do if she leaves.”

He crossed his arms.  “She’s not going to leave,” he retorted.

The Clara image blinked three times.  “When Clara is here, the predictability of your behaviour can be estimated with 72.498% accuracy.  When she is not here, that drops to 46.731%.”

He found himself staring at the Clara image, memories and sensations too recent to be ignored, despite the monotone and un-Clara-like spouting of analytic statistics. 

The TARDIS was linked to his mind – she knew full well that Clara’s image brought his haunting to life before his eyes.

_Clever girl._

But the Doctor was determined, too.  “You’re so concerned with her leaving, but you haven’t said how she’d find out if you don’t tell her.” 

The image flickered, as if considering.  Then it changed again, and he was staring at another version of himself – all gangly, pinstriped limbs and wild hair.  “Is this the man you wanted to be?”

The Doctor felt himself relax, and he breathed a sigh of relief.  “You’re not going to win this one, dear.  So you might as well stop.”

The pinstriped suit vanished and was replaced by black leather topped with a no-nonsense face whose unseeing ice-blue eyes somehow carried more weight.  “This is the man you’ve become?”

The Doctor faltered, setting the wrench down at last and passing a shaking hand over his mouth.  “I had to,” he protested.  “It was for her own good.”

“Was it really?” a posh, gravelly voice asked. 

His head shot up, and he found himself gripping the edge of the console as his warrior self stared at him with far more accusation in a single unseeing glance than all previous ones combined.  “How was it for _her_ good, Doctor?”

“It would’ve complicated things.  She would’ve…wanted things from me, things I can’t give her.”

It was an image, just an image.  But maybe it was because this version of himself was the closest to what he was, his claim on the title of _Doctor_ just as precarious.  A man who did what needed to be done.  Surely this face would’ve understood.

“Or worse – I _would’ve_ given them to her.  Maybe I knew that.  Maybe it was because I _would’ve_ given her anything she asked for, and then where would we be?”

“How do know what she would’ve wanted?  Did you ask her?”

“No, I didn’t.  But you should know more than anyone that you make decisions that you have to live with, decisions that you don’t want to make.  But you have to because no one else will make them if you don’t.”

The image blinked twice.  “Decisions, Doctor.  Decisions involve choice.  Did you give Clara a choice in what happened afterwards?”

“You know I didn’t – you know it doesn’t work like that.”

Had the image grown taller?  It couldn’t have done.  But it appeared more solid, less of a mirage.  “I do.  What I don’t know is when she indicated she wished to forget anything had happened.  Was she turning away?  Pushing you from the room?  Did she tell you to leave?”

His throat tightened as he remembered the moment she had murmured his name, and the tears that had appeared when she opened her eyes and saw his face.  “She cried…”

“Humans cry when they are sad.  Humans can also cry when they are happy or to release tension.  Female humans secrete more adrenocorticotropic hormones in tears than male humans, relieving their stress or frustration.”

“So you’re saying that she only cried because it relieved her stress?”  He scoffed, shaking his head.  “I’d relieved her stress by then, believe me,” he mumbled, unable to look at the version of himself that had asked, aghast, _Is there a lot of this in the future?_   His ears burned, though he couldn’t have said if it was from embarrassment or shame.

Mercifully, she moved on.  “So she cried, and that’s when you decided to wipe her mind.”

The Doctor bristled.  “No, it wasn’t like that, and you know it.  I’d decided to wipe her mind before…”  He trailed off, realising his mistake.

“Before what, Doctor?”

His shoulders slumped as he replayed it in his head.  When he realised he’d let things go too far.   When he decided he would give in to every impulse, every urge, every burning desire he’d ever harbored for her – and the silent bargain he’d made with the Universe that he could have this one experience with her if he ensured there would be no complications afterwards.

Based on the evidence so far…it seemed the Universe had denied that request.

He let out a weary sigh, eyeing the warrior image.  “You know before what – you’re linked with my mind.” 

The image wavered, and then changed again.  Clara stared at him.

The Doctor couldn’t help his gasp or the way he averted his gaze at the sight of her.  “I’d really prefer you didn’t take that form.”

“You have to tell her, Doctor.”

He threw his hands up, but there was no fight left in him.  “Why?”

“Because if you don’t, she will leave.”

He massaged his forehead, his temples.  “You still haven’t said how she’s going to find out if you’re not the one that tells her.”

“Clara took 1,329,056 different memories into her head in a single instant when she jumped into your time stream.  Most human brains would have experienced a neural implosion, an aneurysm, or simply been unable to cope upon waking.  Clara did not.  Her brain does not conform to the same psycho-physical limitations of most humans.”

He stole a glance at the image, but it was too much.  “All right, I’m listening – but will you _please_ take another form?  Someone I can actually look at?  Someone I can actually listen to?  Someone who won’t make me feel embarrassed to speak or ashamed?”  He remembered the way he’d implored the TARDIS in Berlin as he was dying, although right now, the image of little Amelia Pond would _not_ help him any.  “Just – someone I can look at straight on, who won’t judge me, who might actually still respect me if they were here?”

There was the _zapping_ sound that accompanied an image change. 

The Doctor cautiously raised his head and found himself looking into a mirror.  “Now you’re just being funny.”

“I do not have a sense of humour.  I take myself very seriously,” his doppelganger deadpanned.

He barked out a laugh.  “Trying to tell me something, dear?”

The image scowled.  Or perhaps that was just his face.

“All right, so you’re saying you think she retained it?  That I didn’t erase it completely?”

“You took the memory, but her brain is strong; fragments may have been sheltered from your reach.  She may retain parts of it – in dreams, flashes – she’ll put the pieces together, work it out eventually.  And then she will leave.”

“So what do I do?  And how do you know she won’t leave if I _do_ tell her?”

“I do not know.”

The Doctor leaned on the console, clasping his hands as he thought and thought.  To no avail.  “Do I just greet her with ‘Hello, Clara, I wiped your memories last week?’” He asked himself mockingly.

The doppelganger stared.

The Doctor shook his head.  “I guess I just…find a way to tell her, then,” he mumbled.

The image finally vanished, leaving him alone.  

* * *

There was no escape.

Even after she’d turned around at the end of her block, rushing back to her flat to check that she hadn’t left something important – her ID, her phone, her wallet – or left something on – the stove, the faucet – and triple-checked the locks before leaving again –

Even after she’d driven her students barmy with double-checking that she’d assigned them the right pages, and triple-checking that she hadn’t forgotten to inform them of the due dates for their upcoming assignments –

Even after she’d garnered more than a few questioning looks when she kept whipping her head around on the tube, convinced that _someone_ was watching her, but was just out of sight, right in the corner of her eye, vanishing whenever she turned her head –

She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was forgetting _something_.  Something important.

And, more maddeningly – something to do with the Doctor.

Was it some kind of unjust punishment, visited upon her by his prior face from beyond the grave?  Did her decision to go on a date trigger some unexpected guilt about moving on?  Wouldn’t he have wanted her to try to be happy without him?

Or was he destined to haunt her instead?

Her dreams weren’t helping, either.

It wasn’t just the echo dreams – she had grown accustomed to those long ago.  After all, it felt like she had at least a million memories to sort through, and her brain needed _some_ way of working them out, putting them in their proper places.  But these were different, somehow.  She found herself in a memory with the Third Doctor, puttering around in Bessie, when all of a sudden he morphed into the Fourth Doctor, long scarf flapping behind him instead of his cape as he desperately tried to regain control of the automobile.  The Second Doctor piped away merrily on his recorder as he tried to devise their escape from a prison cell, but then all of a sudden became the Third Doctor, the tune abruptly stopping as he eyed it with a dismissive frown.  The Seventh Doctor good-naturedly chastised his companion for packing explosives in her bag when he all of a sudden changed into the younger-looking Eighth Doctor, scaring his companion enough to threaten him with one of said explosives.  Clara’s echoes kept yelling at the Doctors, screaming at them to stop changing, to _Just be you! –_

And she’d wake up. 

The dream would fall to pieces, then, her mind retaining only snatches of it and she’d look around her room apprehensively, just as she had done every morning since the night of her date.  Like if she looked carefully enough, she’d find it.  She’d see it. 

But as usual, no matter how much she scrutinised her room, no matter how much she stared – it only stared back, keeping silent.  Keeping whatever secrets it contained to itself.

If it contained any secrets at all.  It was entirely possible she was just going mad.

Yet what really tipped the scales – what really convinced her that there was something she needed to deal with – was when her last resort failed her.

Ever since she’d said goodbye to _her_ Doctor, since she’d put on her bravest face as he disappeared through the TARDIS doors to meet his next face – she had used the translator – or, more fittingly, the message he’d left her there – to soothe her in her in her darkest moments, on her gloomiest days and during her loneliest nights.  She no longer needed the English text screen, having learnt every word, every intake of breath, every pause and dip in his voice long ago.  Now she could simply press the _play_ button and listen, letting that beloved voice wash over her, finding a balm to the ache he left behind in his words of caring, of the hope and joy she’d provided him, of the deeply felt love he’d developed for her.  And his confessed desires of the things he’d wanted to do, things he’d wished they could do – things they could now never do…  These were the words she turned to when she was at her most frustrated, like after her date.

But when she’d grabbed the translator with a world-weary sigh on Wednesday evening, she was shocked to discover that the words had an _opposite_ effect on her.  Instead of soothing her, they made her even more restless, increasing her anxiety enough that she impulsively fast-forwarded, reaching the last part of the message.  Yet hearing those familiar words was somehow even _worse,_ her tension so high that by the time she fumbled for the off switch, she was shaking.

It _must_ have been guilt, then. 

Guilt for going on a date; guilt for moving on.  And her dreams, with the Doctor never staying who he was meant to be – must have been some kind of wishing on her part that things could’ve stayed the same.  That _her_ Doctor could have just stayed himself, never regenerating into the sharp-tongued, silver-haired man he was now.  Then she would never have had to go on a date in the first place.

Still, she resolved to approach her next meeting with the Doctor with extra caution, to see if anything was amiss.  Because the only logical conclusion she could draw came with a sinking sense of dread.

That despite her quiet acceptance of their new dynamic, of their new relationship - that somehow, _some_ way, she still yearned for him.

She still wanted _this_ Doctor. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *See end for Author's Note

The Doctor couldn’t stop his pacing, his gradual if frenetic dance about the console.  He was fidgeting like he hadn’t done since the last body, finding new switches to flick, other knobs to turn.

He’d parked the TARDIS, and she hadn’t shown up yet. 

She hadn’t shown up…

Maybe that meant –

“Hello?”

He turned around abruptly.  “Hello.”

“Oh.”  She paused.  “You don’t usually stand right there.”

Was he standing too close?  Was that betraying something?  “Well, I just got here,” he replied, already backpedaling. 

“Oh.  Okay.”

If she had worked anything out, she was doing a fine job of hiding it, her movements nonchalant as she dumped her bag on the chair.  He couldn’t stand the seconds of silence.

“How was your week?  Did anything interesting happen, or any…strange dreams?”

She was grasping a faded, grey t-shirt in one hand and a pair of worn trainers in the other, items she’d apparently fished from her bag.  “Strange dreams?”  She rested them on top.  “Why would you ask me that?”

He shrugged casually.  “No reason, really – just curious as to how your week went.”

Apparently it was too casual.  She clasped her hands together loosely as she leaned over the chair.  “You’re never curious about how my week went.  What’s going on?” 

He rushed to correct her, turning his back so he wouldn’t have to look her in the eye.  “That’s not true.  I’m always curious – I just never express it.”

“Doctor –”

“I did something.”

“And there it is.”  She paused, taking on that air he suspected she’d adapted from her time with Artie and Angie, one that had probably served her well as a teacher.  Appropriately serious but with an underlying compassion to it:  she would listen first before passing judgment.  “Okay.  What did you do?”

He wasn’t taking any chances, though.  “Before I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t leave.”

“That bad, then?”

“Just…”  He finally met her eye, openly pleading with her.  “Please promise me.  You won’t leave.”

“Wow, must have been _really_ bad.”

“Clara-”

“All right, fine, I promise.”  She flung her t-shirt over the back of the chair.  “I’m not going anywhere Doctor.  So what was it?  Tell me.”  She looked like she was steeling herself.  “Did you wipe out a species?”

His mouth dropped open, scowling at the insult.  “No!”

“Okay - good.  Did you destroy a planet?”

He couldn’t help his noise of frustration.  “No, nothing like that!  I didn’t kill _anyone_ – what kind of man do you think I am?”

She held up her hands in defence.  “Okay.  You didn’t kill anyone, that’s good.” 

It must have been a method honed from years of practise:  start with the most horrible act imaginable and work your way down from there, slowly chipping away pieces of the confessor’s guilt.  His compassionate Clara, trying to ease his burden and make this easier on him. 

But it was only making it worse.

“I…I took something,” was all he could manage. 

“Oh. Okay.”  She folded her arms.  “Did it belong to you?”

“No.”

“So you _stole_ something,” she clarified, face still miraculously clear of judgment.

He swallowed.  “Yes.  And now I have to give it back.”

“Right.”  She was thoughtful a moment.  “Well…can you give it back without whoever it is noticing?”

“No,” he said after a moment of actual consideration.  “And I never expected you’d want me to be underhanded about it.”

“I don’t!  Just – weighing all your options is all.”  Her fingers drummed against her arms.  “Especially if someone might come after us…”

“No one will come after us.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yes.” 

There was a brief thrumming overhead, and the Doctor mentally told the TARDIS to shut it.  _I don’t need you involved in this._

But Clara heard it, frowning at the ceiling.  “Is _she_ upset about this?”

The Doctor tried to equivocate.  “We had a disagreement earlier, but we’re _past it now_ ,” he said meaningfully, glaring upward.  The thrumming stopped, her warning done.

Clara was tapping her finger against her lip, still thinking.  “Well – was it someone important?  Like to history?  Or the future?”

He winced.  “It was someone important…though not in the way you’re describing, no.” 

She nodded, though she didn’t look convinced.  “Okay. So - what did you take?”

His confession came out on a sigh.  “I took…someone’s memories.”

Clearly she hadn’t been expecting that.  “Oh.  So you took someone’s memories of someone important to…”  She trailed off, eyeing him anew, her judgment-free mask beginning to slip.  “Hang on…was it me?”

The Doctor found he could only look at her, his confirmation stuck in his throat.

“Doctor…” She took one threatening step towards him.

“Yes,” he croaked.

She subjected him to her hardened gaze for a few painful seconds before turning, walking back towards the chair, shaking her head all the while.  “All week, I’ve had this weird feeling like – like there was something important I wasn’t seeing – something I was supposed to be paying attention to.  Like if I could just turn my head I’d catch this – this _thing_ in the corner of my eye, that I’d remember.  Like I was forgetting something.”  Her look was just shy of a glare.  “Guess it’s cause I _was_.  Although I don’t know when you could’ve taken them - I haven’t seen you since…”  She trailed off again, her lips twisting into a humourless smile.  “Right. So I _have_ seen you since you showed up on my doorstep last week.”

“Yes.”

She crossed her arms again, back to that nanny-turned-teacher stance.  “Okay.  Well…tell me what happened.”

He hadn’t anticipated that she’d go so far as to ask for his side of the story.  He thought you told the bad thing you did, returned the thing you weren’t supposed to take, and waited for your punishment to be doled out.  He swallowed down his discomfort.  “You…you want me to tell you what happened?  Don’t you just want them back?”

She took a minute step back at his suggestion.  “What? No!  No!  If it was bad enough, I mean…it must have been something truly horrible, something so awful, so terrible that you didn’t want me to remember.  I don’t want them to just be dumped in my head – you’re going to tell me what happened first!  So – what was it?  Were we attacked?”

“No.”

“Was _I_ attacked?”

“No.”

“But it had to have been bad, right?”  Her shrug looked close to a shiver.  “I mean if it was bad enough that you took them – either that or – did we go somewhere we’re not supposed to?  Someplace that’s, I dunno – forbidden?” 

Her question was closer to the truth than he liked.  He tugged at his collar, his neck suddenly too warm.  “Well…”

“We did, didn’t we?”  There was unmistakable relief in her voice.  “Someplace I’m not supposed to know about then?”

“No, not – not exactly.  We didn’t go anywhere.  We stayed in one place.”

“Oh.  You mean we stayed in the TARDIS?”  New understanding dawned on her face.  “Was there another rupture in time?” 

“No, no, it wasn’t like that – we weren’t in the TARDIS.  We were in your – in your bedroom.”

“In my…bedroom?

“Yes.  I came to visit you after your date.”

She didn’t seem fazed by the location.  “But then what?  Did something happen?  Did you come to warn me about something, and it followed you?”

“No, I…I just came to see you.  It was just you and me.”

“Oh.  But then…was it a wormhole?” 

“A wormhole?!”  He couldn’t help his irritation, as she unwittingly dragged the conversation out further and further.  “Do you want to keep guessing or do you want me to tell you?”

Clara made some sort of defensive gesture, finally settling on crossing her arms again.  “Fine.  Tell me.  You showed up in my…bedroom.” 

“Yes.  We had a conversation.”

“Okay.  And then what?”

“Well, then…you wanted me to hug you.”

She huffed.  “Um, okay.  So…after you ran screaming from the room, did you actually come back?”

He couldn’t help the way his lips quirked at that.  “There was no screaming or running.  I did hug you.  And then you…kissed me.”

She gave a visible start.  “What, like on the cheek?”

“No, on the mouth.  And then you wanted me to hold you –”

“Wait – _what_?”

“-and so I held you, and then you kissed me again, and we were kissing and –”

“No, no – hang on,” she interrupted, waving a hand as though she could wave away his words. “You’re telling me that you and I were _snogging_.  You. And _me_.  Snogging.”

“Yes.”

She surprised him by letting out a laugh.  “Did I come back _really_ , really pissed?”

The question caught him off-guard.  “No, you seemed sober.”

“Was I _drugged_?  Acting weird, I dunno – like out of it or something?”

“No, you were acting normal.”

“Okay.”  She was nodding her head, but her expression didn’t match.  “Okay, well I can see why you would want to erase that memory but figure it’d be from _your_ memory, not mine.”

“I’m not finished.”

“There’s _more_?”

“Yes.”

She eyed him warily.  “Okay…”

“So we were kissing, and you wanted me to take off your dress and –”

“I _WHAT_?!”

“-but I didn’t want to take off your dress, and so you got frustrated and –”

“No, no, hang on –”

“-and that’s when you started…touching yourself.”

Her mouth opened and closed, her teacher persona dissolving instantly.  Or perhaps this was simply the expression she wore when she actually feared for a student’s sanity. Her words stuttered as she struggled to get them out.  “Doctor…why would you say these things?”

“It’s what happened,” he said, somewhat defensively.

She started to laugh again, shaking her head.  “But I wouldn’t do that.  I wouldn’t do what you’re describing in a _million_ years.  In front of someone.  And in front of _you_?  Not in a million _MILLION_ years!”

The double jab pricked at each of his hearts in turn.  “Well…you did.  But it wasn’t just you, I - helped. Using the…screwdriver.”

All traces of whatever type of mirth she’d found in the situation instantly left her face as she took on an air of mock seriousness.  “Oh.  Right.  ‘Cause that sounds like something I’d do, too.  Not only was I doing this in front of you, but I took your screwdriver, and used it as a –”

“No, no like that!” He gestured vaguely.  “It didn’t even touch you – it…it has a setting.  A pulse – vibration -setting.  I just sat there.  No contact required.” 

“And I just… _let_ you do that,” she said matter-of-factly, clearly pretending to go along with what she viewed as his delusions. 

“Yes. You’d invited me to…join in before that.”

“Oh yeah, ‘course I did.  Wouldn’t want you to feel left out, right?”

He ground his teeth, determined to be done with it.  “So then after, you went to change, and I knew it was too late, and I should’ve left, but…I stayed.  And you were going to take your dress off, but then I …took it off for you.”

“You…took my dress off.”

He could no longer look at her.  “Yes.”

She let out the start of another laugh, but it was suddenly cut short.  She stared, wide-eyed.   “Where – where did you take it off?”

He frowned.  “In your bedroom.”

“No – where in my room?”

He thought for a moment.  “It was by your cupboard.  You were about to change.  I forgot to hang it up, I – left it on the floor.”

She swallowed audibly.  “The floor?”

“Yes.”  Seizing on her silence, he rushed on.  “So I took your dress off, and then I was…kissing you.  All over.” 

“But I still had my…underthings on, right?”

He fought down his grimace.  “Just your…” He waved a hand at his chest.

“ _Just_ my -?  What happened to my…”  She squeezed her eyes shut, tapping her foot.  “I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but – what happened to my knickers?”

Her embarrassment and discomfort only augmented his.  He shook his head quickly.  “You’d taken them off before…when you were…”  He trailed off, letting a lift of his eyebrows serve as an end to that sentence.

Her eyes doubled in size again.  “So when you say you were kissing me all over, and I was almost naked, did you…?”  She couldn’t even get the words out.  “I mean, were you kissing…?”

“I kissed all over, but then…then yes, I focused on one area.”

“You mean you were…?”

“Yes.”

Clara was struck dumb; the only sounds she seemed capable of were deep breaths.

“So I was doing that, and we moved to your desk, and knocked some things over –”

“Hang on, no, no, no.”  She held up a hand.  “Nothing was out of place on my desk when I woke up.”

He felt his cheeks redden at having to admit his cover-up.  “I put it all back before I left.  Though I missed your dress.”

“Put it all back how?” 

“Well, I put the pens and pencils back in the jars and –”  

“No, how did you leave it?”  There was an urgency to her question he didn’t understand.  “Not the pens and pencils – what else was on there?”

“There was your scarf, your purse, and your – dangly things.  I folded your scarf, put your purse on top, and the dangly things next to it.”

The colour had drained from her face, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper.  “When you saw me before my date, you said it looked like I was going to a funeral ‘cause I was dressed all in black.  But then after you left, I wondered if you were right, so I ran upstairs and grabbed a wrap – scarf - to have a pop of colour.  If what you’re saying is true…”  She trailed off, her expression grave as she fixed him with her stare.  “Doctor…what colour was the scarf?”

“It was red.”

Clara turned from him, hand over her mouth as she doubled over, her breaths coming fast.  “I think I might be sick,” she replied hoarsely.

He fumbled, flustered at this.  “I can – I can just give you your memories back.”

“ _NO_.”  Her reply was automatic.  “No.  Just…just tell me the rest.”

The mere sight of her doubled over, physically ill from the descriptions – not even _descriptions_ but _statements -_ cold, hard facts, of what they’d done together…

He would rather she’d haunted him for the next thousand years. 

“We moved to your bed, and then after it was done –”

“After _what_ was done?”  She snapped her head up, and he noticed there was a faint sheen on her forehead.  “Did you…did I take your clothes off, too?  Did we…?”  She looked like the answer might send her running for the rubbish bin. 

“No.  I was…focused on you. And after that, I held you.  And that was it.”

“ _It_.”  The motion of her head was far too jerky to be called a nod.  “And then you decided you’d wipe my mind.”

He dropped his gaze, unable to look at her.  “Clara…”

“No.”  She was shaking her head now, her voice very quiet.  “No, no, no.  NO.  This. Doesn’t. Make. _Any._ Sense.  I wouldn’t do any of these things and certainly not with _you_!”  She pointed an accusatory finger at him.  “You’re leaving something out!  _You’re_ forgetting something, Doctor!”

“I’m not!  I told you everything that happened!”  He scoffed.  “You think I would make any of this _up_?”

Her hands flew to her head, palms pressing into her scalp as though she could will the memories out of her own mind – or prevent them from returning.  “Well, you must be, because none of this…”  She paced a few steps, hands dropping to her sides.  “There must have been something – maybe _you_ were drugged or we were infected by some alien dust or…I don’t know _what_!”

“There was no drugging, no dust!  I told you everything!  We talked, and then we did those things!”

“We talked?  What did we talk about – ‘let’s pretend we’re two _completely_ different people for one night?!’”

His biting retort died in his throat as he realised the full impact of his omission.  How her reactions might’ve been slightly different if he had told her the events as they unfolded instead of out of order.  “No, no.”  He sighed.  “It was about the translator.”

“What?”

“The translator I gave you before I changed.”

The admission did nothing to calm her.  “And what about it?  What does _that_ have to do with any of this?!”

“It has EVERYHING to do with it!”  He shouted, finally reaching his own boiling point.  “I told you about the message I left you before I regenerated – and how every word I said, every…impassioned declaration, every flowery metaphor, every… _burning desire_ is still true.”

She gaped at him, her expression all-too-familiar. “What?”

He let out a bitter chuckle.  “And you didn’t believe me.  You didn’t believe me because you thought that I hated touching you, and I told you that I _don’t_ hate touching you, that it’s the opposite, that every time you’re even near me, I _feel_ it.”  He’d approached her in his agitation, words flowing from him in an unstoppable rush now.  “I can…smell your hair from here and every time you breathe, I know the places it touches my skin.”

She was back to eyeing him incredulously again.  “But…that doesn’t make any sense.”

He pointed at her.  “And you said that, too!  You didn’t believe me – but Clara, I have done _everything_ to make you think that!  To make you think that I hated touching you, that I didn’t want to hug you, that being near you disgusted me. Because I wanted you to date men your own age – which I kept saying over and over again, you’ll see!”

“Then why tell me all that?”

“What?”

Her hands were back on her head again, then flew about as she gesticulated wildly.  “If you wanted me to date men my own age, Doctor, then _why_ tell me all of this?  As soon as I _do_ go on a date with a man my age?  Why wait until the _exact same night_?!”

Her question threw him for a moment.  “Because… because I thought you should know.  I wanted you to have a choice.”

Her laugh was high-pitched, borderline hysterical.  “A _choice_?  You took that choice away from me!”

“I didn’t…”  He shook his head.  “I’m telling you now – I’m giving your memories back to you,” he protested, advancing towards her.

But she backed away from him, hands held up like a shield.  “No – no.  Don’t touch me.”

He was crestfallen.  “Okay.”

She paced back to the chair, gripping the back of it as she hung her head.  “If everything you said in that message is still true…EVERYTHING….”  She took a breath, finally meeting his eyes.  “That means you still… _love_ me?”

He bravely held her gaze, nodding.  “Yes.”

But his admission only caused her to shake her head again, a different kind of disbelief in her features.  “Then _how_ , Doctor… _how_ could you do something like that to me?”

He didn’t want to say it, but he honestly didn’t have a better answer for her.  And she deserved honesty, if nothing else.  “Because I thought it’d be easier,” he admitted.

“Easier on _who_ exactly?”

“On you.” He paused.  “And on me.”

Clara bit her lip, still stoppering the emotions that seemed like they wanted to break free.  She took a shuddering breath, turning as though the sight of him pained her.  “God, I can’t even look at you.”

Apparently it did.

The Doctor braced himself on the console, his voice quiet as he pleaded with her the only way he knew how.  “I know I did wrong.  I know what I did was wrong, and I’m sorry.  I wish I could take it back…but I can’t.  Just – please let me give you back your memories.”

She still wouldn’t turn around.  “Is there a way you can give them back without touching me?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.  “No.”

He heard her take a few audible breaths.  “Fine.”  She approached him with leaden steps and the stoic resolve normally reserved for meeting one’s executioner.  She joined him at the console, gaze stubbornly fixated on the time rotor. 

He turned, reached for her – and stopped.  “You – you have to face me.”

She ignored him.  “Before we do this, I just want to make sure you’ve got one thing clear.”  Her tone was like steel.

“All right.”

“I made you a promise that I wouldn’t leave.  _Not_ the one you asked me to make just now, but the one I made after you changed.  So I’ll stay.”

He tried his best not to sound too surprised, aiming for cautious optimism.  “Good.” 

“But you better get it through that _thick…_ Time Lord skull of yours that just because I am staying, that does _not_ mean I forgive you.”  Her voice had grown dangerously quiet, and it sounded like she had to fight to pry the words from between her teeth.

He made a valiant effort not to react.  “Understood.”

“And it may take a _very_ long time for me to get there.”  She finally turned towards him.  “And I can’t promise you that I’ll get there at all.”

It shouldn’t have been so unexpected, but her words might as well have pulverized his hearts.  “Okay.”

He reached for her again, desperate to have it all done with, but she evaded his touch, pacing away from him again.  It was disconcertingly similar to their dance of the previous week, their roles merely reversed. 

She finally paced back to him, such fire burning in her eyes as he had never seen.  “No.  No, I’m not done yet.  One more thing.  One more thing before I _let_ you into my mind.”

“What?”

There was a pause, and then – _whack!_

The sound echoed in his ears before he processed the sensation that went with it, his brain sloshing around the inside of his skull as his cheek exploded in pain.  Before he could fully register the sting of her first slap – _whack!_ – a second blow landed across his other cheek, this one possibly even more forceful than the first. He staggered back, hands automatically cradling his face to nurse them – or maybe protect them from any further onslaught. 

“Okay.” Her exhalation sounded close to one of satisfaction.  “I’m ready.”

He nodded, though it may have been more a motion to clear the tiny flashes of light flickering around his head than a reply.  “Okay.”  He paused as he eyed their position.  “It might be better if you sit.”

“I’m fine with standing, thanks.”  Her lips barely moved, her jaw was clenched so tightly. 

He’d been right about one thing:  Clara really was his sun.  She’d unmasked the full power behind those rays that could warm or burn – and now he was wilting under her undimmed radiance.  “Whatever you want.”  He waited.  “You need to close your eyes, Clara.”

“I’ll close them when I’m ready.”  She paused, dropping her gaze.  Then she reached for his hands, gripping his fingers as she brought them to her temples, her touch anything but gentle.  “This is how you do it, yeah?”

He fought down a grimace as her grip tightened, squeezing the life out of his fingers.  “Yes.”

“Okay.  I’m ready.”  At last, her eyes mercifully closed.

The organisation of Clara’s memories was remarkable, with doorways adorned accordingly to separate them into categories:  a collection of dolls with carefully arranged blonde and brunette hair stared with unblinking eyes, keeping their watchful vigil in front of one door; another door looked like a giant whiteboard, with scribbled messages from friends and fellow students, and the sound of laughter emanating from behind it.  These doors were at the beginning of the corridor, with plenty of overhead lighting to illuminate their presence and provide ease of access.  The details started tapering off as he traveled further down the corridor, the light dimming as he passed doors that had only one item in front of them.  A solitary book leaned against one softly lit doorway, and he bowed his head in respect as he noted the title when he passed:  _101 Places to See_.  He frowned as he approached yet another doorway lit with warm, rosy hues but with nothing to indicate what the memories were about.  He unthinkingly reached forward, but stopped dead when he saw what was on the knob.

There, tied perfectly around the knob with great care, was one of his old bowties.

He hurried on.

The stolen memory wasn’t difficult to locate:  there was a blinking light at the end of the corridor that guided him there.  It shone like a beacon, momentarily blinding him with its glare only to darken a few seconds later.  As if her mind were screaming at her to pay attention to something it couldn’t pinpoint – and then go unnervingly silent.

It took some effort to swallow down his shame.  She must’ve thought she was going mad.

Luckily, he didn’t have to recreate the structure of the memory, as there was already a door leading to an empty room.  He quietly marveled at the strength of her mind, that it had even retained the sense of that room, that inexplicable yawning space.  He filled it as quickly as he could, exiting and closing the door behind him.  A vigorous jog that was closer to a sprint down the main corridor, a reach for the door he’d originally entered -

Clara’s eyes flew open, her breaths coming fast as the full brunt of the memories hit her.  Then she turned from him, her steps shaky as she approached the railing, clutching it as though holding on for dear life.  When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I was…naked.” Her words trembled.  “I had just done something so…intimate with you, and I was naked, and you – you gave me your jacket.  You gave me your jacket, and you were holding me and stroking my hair, and I felt… _safe_ with you.  For the first time, Doctor…” She turned back, tears streaming down her face.  “I felt safe with you!”

Whatever was left of his hearts evaporated on the spot.  “You _were_ safe.  You’ve always been safe – I would never let anything happen to you.”

Clara slowly shook her head.  “No, Doctor.  That is _not_ what I mean.”  She wiped the tears from her eyes, looking towards the door.  “I can’t stay here.”

He felt his stomach plummet through the floor.  “But you said you wouldn’t leave.”

“Not forever, just…I can’t be here right now, I just…”  She moved towards the door, her steps determined.  “I can’t be in the same room with you.  Don’t know if I even want to be on the same _planet_ as you.”

He followed her.  “Do you want me to wait?”

Her reply was quick.  “No.  No, I need…I need some time.”

“Oh.  Should I come back next week then?”

“ _No_.”

He was silent, the severity of the situation finally sinking in.

He heard her sigh.  “God.  I really wish I could tell you to never come back.  To just – go find someone else to…”  This time the noise that came out of her mouth was more strangled frustration, accompanied by a thud as she let her weight fall into the door.  “I wonder if you have any idea how much I _hate_ you right now.”

He gripped the console, suddenly needing the support.  It took him a while to find not only a reply but a voice to give it with.  “I’m starting to.”

He shouldn’t have said anything, because now she was looking at him again.  She was looking at him, and it made him amend his original wish to _two_ thousand years of haunting. 

“Maybe that’ll be a good punishment.”  Was the TARDIS feeding her his thoughts?  “You don’t get to travel alone or run from what you did.  You’ll have to travel with someone who can _barely stand the sight of you._ ”

Twelve hundred years…twelve hundred years and he was seeing something new from a companion.  There were plenty of times he’d caused them pain – or angered them (or both).  There were the times when they finally learned he wasn’t a god or a superhero and it was that mix of shock and disappointment, like Amy after he lost Melody.  There was the distrust and the fear – the sense that he’d better tread carefully or he’d let them down, like Rose when he’d been prepared to blow up that Dalek in Utah. 

He could handle her shock.  He could understand her anger and her pain.  He could weather her fear and her disappointment. 

But this was _betrayal_.

This was _I trusted you…and now I don’t trust you at all._

And worst of all, the kicker…

_I may never trust you again._

He could just barely manage a nod.

“But I still need some time, and I honestly don’t know how much time I need…”  She shook her head, tilting her head skyward.  “I want to say a year – hell, I want to say _ten,_ but I know that won’t make anything better.  And so much can happen in a year – and I am _not_ putting my life on hold for you.  And if I say six months or even three, I know I’ll just be dreading the day you come back, so…”  She finally met his eyes.  “I’m not saying I’ll be ready ‘cause I have no idea how I’ll be…but come back in a month.” 

He nodded.  “All right.  I will.”

It was better than he could have hoped for – better than he might have expected.  Yet the sight of her hand on the door handle prompted him to one last act of desperation.  “Clara?” he blurted before he could stop himself.

She took several seconds to turn around, the action evidently performed with great difficulty.  “What?”

“I know you hate me right now – I know that.  But I just need to know, before all this happened, did you…”  He took a breath, steeling his resolve, throwing caution to the wind and availing himself of this last-ditch effort to salvage anything between them.  “Do you still love me?”

Her eyes widened, lips parting in surprise.  The muscles of her face twitched as she clearly fought back whatever emotions threatened to overcome her.  “You want me to separate what I’m feeling right now from whatever came before this so you can what?  Make yourself feel better?”

He stared at her, unflinching under her glare.  “I think it’d be worse, not better.”

Finally, she broke their eye contact, shaking her head.  “I don’t know,” she admitted.  “Come back in a month.”

“Ask you again?”  He ventured, a tiny shred of hope finding its way into the ruin of his hearts.  “Because in a month you might say -”

“Just…come back in a month.”

The door didn’t slam, but there was such finality in the sound that it brought the Doctor to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally posted this, it was RIGHT before Kill the Moon and Mummy on the Orient Express had aired - so people were a little dubious that Clara would react so strongly. But I stand by it. It may not have been leaving her with the decision between two genocides like he did in KtM, but this was a very PERSONAL betrayal. And I believe Clara would react accordingly.


	7. Chapter 7

Clara slept at her dad’s the first week.

She’d returned to her flat in a daze, utterly unaware of how she’d arrived as she stepped into her bedroom.  But the second she stepped across its threshold, she was immediately bombarded with images, tactile sensations, sounds, her bedroom now her own personal Pandora’s Box.   And with its seal broken, it tipped over and gleefully spilled its secrets and memories into her head:  the desk – _where he had hoisted her after her leg muscles protested, clutching each thigh and hitching them over his shoulders;_ the nightstand – _where he had dropped pin after pin after pin, the start of his unexpected seduction as he undid her hair and with it, her resolve;_ the cupboard – _where he had grabbed her from behind and peeled her dress away, hot, demanding mouth blazing a trail of kisses down her back;_ the bed…

She swallowed.  _The bed_.

Her approach was cautious.  She didn’t sink into it, holding herself rigid as though the ends might unhinge to reveal a pair of hideous jaws that would snatch her off the edge and swallow her whole.

The bed…

_Where he had sat, unreachable, as he worked her to the edge and back again, watching her dissolve to pieces..._

_Where he had run his possessive hands over every curve, every dimple, every mole, every stubborn ingrown hair and fleshy pouch and scar, his touch greedy like he knew he was touching her for the last -_

She squeezed her eyes shut.

_Where he had lain her down, so gentle…_

_Where he had wiped away her tears with tender fingertips…_

_Where he had covered her, his jacket like a protective cloak; and in the shelter of his embrace, her head had found a comfortable spot on his chest at last, his strokes and caresses so soothing, so –_

She was off the bed in an instant, refusing to even _think_ that word. 

But it floated about her head, mocking her:  the last secret in this box that had once been her bedroom, her haven, her sanctuary.  This place that no longer felt –

_Safe._

Within twenty minutes, she had a bag packed and was out the door, slamming it shut.  Sealing the contents inside.

Or so she thought.

Because removing physical reminders was the easy bit.

Memories, however…well, memories were slippery. 

Of course, Clara was well acquainted with their nature:  she had learnt every trick to prevent memories from overtaking her waking hours.  With so many memories, she’d become quite the locksmith:  fashioning the right-sized key for each individual door in the endless corridors of her echoes’ lifetimes. 

Unfortunately, she had never _mastered_ the art…because those doors always opened at night in her dreams.

And that’s exactly how the new memories slipped in.

_She was back on Holi, standing under the shower, feeling the warm, thick substance like tiny fingers on her neck…but then the substance became the Doctor’s fingers, kneading at those tight muscles._

_“Feels good…doesn’t it?”  He murmured in her ear, his mouth following his fingers._

_“Yesss,” she hissed her pleasure._

_They were both soaking wet, and she watched the colours swirl down the drain, the purples and magentas gradually deepening to blood red._

_“Doctor,” she said, alarmed._

_“Ignore it.”  His voice was muffled as he kissed down her neck and her back, her shirt suddenly gone.  There was a strange smell in the air now._

_“What is that?”_

_His only reply was a moan, but no, it was more strangled than that.  She turned, letting out a shriek at the sight of him.  Flames licked his clothing, the sides of his face, but he didn’t seem to notice as he continued kissing her stomach._

_“Doctor, you’re on fire!”_

_He only peered up at her.  “Of course I am,” he replied blithely.  He held up his hands as they burst into flame.  “This is what you do to me.”_

_Panicked, she lunged for the shower orb overhead, desperately trying to extend it from the wall.  But she lost her footing and slipped, landing hard on the tiled floor.  When she opened her eyes, he was gone, and she shivered under the cold water –_

_And suddenly she was on Cedaraius, still naked.  The snow drifted down around her, and her teeth chattered as she hugged her legs to her body. “Doctor?”  she called, her voice returning to her on the wind._

_There was the sound of footsteps trudging through the snow._

_Clara held up a hand and squinted through the flurries, just making out a familiar shape with a long coat.  “Doctor?”_

_The form finally reached her and she found herself looking up into the Doctor’s previous face, green eyes full of concern.  “Clara?”_

_Her mouth opened, but her words were stuck._

_“Clara!  What are you doing here?”  He swooped down on her, running gentle hands over her shoulders, her hair.  “And you’re all wet – you’ll catch your death out here!”_

_“I –“_

_“Here.”  He quickly unbuttoned his jacket, laying it around her shoulders and covering her._

_“I was…” she began, but her words fell away as the Doctor folded her into his embrace, rocking her back and forth._

_“No one here for you…no one to take care of you…”  He kissed the top of her head, and it worked like magic on her eyelids, which closed as grateful, happy tears sprung to her eyes.  “Who’s going to look out for you?”_

_Then he was gone, and she was alone again._

_She turned from side to side, meeting empty, cold air in every direction.  “Doctor?”_

_“Mmm,” came the reply from near her stomach._

_She was in her bed, wearing only a t-shirt, her hands fisted in the Doctor’s mop of brown hair._

_He raised his head, hair flopping boyishly over his eyes.  He smiled.  “We haven’t done this, have we?” he asked in a toe-curling tone of voice._

_“You,” she breathed, returning the smile.  “It’s still you.”_

_He pressed himself against her, his clothes falling away like his sheer want of her was enough to melt them.  “It’s me.”  He kissed her, tongue sweeping inside her mouth, then dropped to her neck.  “We didn’t get to do this, did we?”_

_She could only shake her head, clutching him tighter._

_“Do you want this, Clara Oswald?” he asked, bucking against her._

_She nodded fervently.  “Yes,” she cried softly.  “God, yes, I want this.  I want YOU.  Just you.”_

_And then he was inside her, and they were moving together, and she could barely contain herself knowing that she had him there, that it was him, it was HIM…_

_His breaths came hot in her ear.  “You think I didn’t know you wanted it to be him?” the wrong voice growled._

_She jerked up, expecting to see the older face, but it was the same Doctor.  Still him._

_“Clara?” His light eyebrows immediately knit together.  “What’s wrong?”_

_She placed both palms on his face, holding him there, the image of him – of HIM over her like this.  He was here and this was real and REALLY happening.  “Nothing.  Nothing, just – just kiss me.”_

_He caught her lower lip between his, making her sigh into his mouth.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, crushing him to her, hands wandering his face like they were checking to make sure his face was still his._

_But he was insatiable and quickly broke away from her hold, descending again on her neck, tongue lapping against her ear.  She let out a whimper when his teeth grazed the tip of it._

_“Better enjoy this, Clara, since this’ll be your last time,” the wrong voice warned again._

_This time when she pushed back, she was looking into the owner of that voice’s face, slate blue eyes darkened with desire and something even fiercer._

_Gasping, her hands immediately unwound from his neck, trying to push herself away.  But he anticipated her movements, catching her wrists and pinning them to the bed._

_“I could make you scream,” he purred, letting a finger trail lazily around her jaw.  “You know I could do things to you that HE would never have dreamed of…never have DARED to do.”_

_She could only stare, wide-eyed, caught in the stalemate of her body warring with her mind._

_He thrust into her, and her eyes slid shut against her will, a traitorous moan sounding from her throat._

_His cackle was triumphant.  “You feel it.  You know it.”_

_She pried her eyes open, shaking her head.  “No…no, I don’t want –“_

_“Don’t want what?”  Another rolls of his hips, slow and languid._

_She shook her head, biting her lip to prevent another cry from escaping.  “I don’t want –“_

_“Me?”  His mouth fell to her neck, and she could feel it – the fire.  Pouring from him – or was it from her?  “We both know that’s not true…”_

_She conceded defeat, giving herself over to it, letting it build as they continued their own build.  And when she was pushed to the edge, so close, he whispered in her ear._

_“Too bad we can’t have it.”_

_His face was blistered, horribly disfigured from where the flames had consumed his flesh.  She screamed –_

And woke up covered in a cold sweat, shaking.

Instinctively, she reached for her lamp on her nightstand, but met with only air.  It was then she remembered she was in her old room at her father’s flat.  She slid up in the bed until her back was against the wall, tucking herself into a tight ball.  The memory – dream - of her Doctor covering her with his coat was just close enough that she could conjure it, could feel the way his arms slid around her shoulders, hugging her close.  But it warred with the actual memory, freshly planted in her mind, of her new Doctor performing the same motion – before both vanished… 

“Why did you leave me there?” she whispered into the dark silence of the room.  “Why did you leave me here?  Why did you leave, Doctor, _why_?”

This room had no more answers than her own bedroom, leaving her to ponder which _him_ and _he_ she meant as she rocked herself back and forth.

* * *

Clara returned home the next week.

The different location could only do so much, and her sleep hadn’t been any more restful than if she had stayed in her own flat.  But even that reasoning wasn’t what tipped the scales for her.  Because while she had been unsuccessful in curtailing the memories that grew and warped into even stranger and ever-more confusing dreams at night, she had at least been able to keep it all safely tucked away during the day, carefully pushed to the furthest recesses of her mind. 

But she discovered that she could only do that for so long. 

Clara hadn’t thought anything of it when she’d glanced at her lesson plan for the day.  She had taught _Jane Eyre_ several times now, and her afternoon class probably ranked as somewhere in the middle for both level of interaction and thoughtfulness of discussion.  And Dorna McAllister wasn’t exactly a star student – or a terribly talkative one for that matter.  Her argument wasn’t all that articulate, though Clara did have to admire her for her gusto…

“I think he’s a right bastard.”

“Language!”  Jimmy Barnard immediately chimed in in a sing-song voice, anticipating one of Clara’s classroom discussion rules.

“Thank you, Jimmy.”  She held up a hand wearily, motioning to Dorna.  “Why do you say that, Dorna?”

“Well, I mean he does everything he can to make her think he doesn’t like her, like, spends all that time carrying on ‘bout Blanche Ingram, talkin’ ‘bout marryin’ her and stuff.  He makes her think she’s leavin’ when the whole time he’s plannin’ on marryin’ her instead.  Then he, like, springs it on her – the truth I mean – and ‘spects Jane to jus’ be like, ‘Oh, you mean all that ‘bout Blanche was just bullsh – _rubbish_?  Well, good job I love you so much – let’s get married!’”

Tristan Littleton sniggered.

Clara looked at him meaningfully.  “Yes, Tristan?  Anything to add to that?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug.  “No, Miss,” he mumbled with downcast eyes.

“Okay – anyone else?”

Her students were silent, save for some shuffling of feet.  Mike Barron let out a loud yawn, leaning back in his chair. 

Clara rested against her desk.  “Remember one of the essay topics is a character piece, and Mr. Rochester is a good one for that.  Anyone want to venture a guess as to _why_ he might have misled Jane for so long?”

Her students were doing their best impressions of waking zombies.  Finally, Robbie Cramer offered a tentative hand. 

“Yes, Robbie?”

“’Cause he was scared?” he asked squeakily.

Clara nodded encouragingly.  “Okay.  Say more.”

His eyes doubled behind his thick glasses.  “Ummmm…ermmmm….”

“What was he scared of?  Can you think of anything?” She coaxed.

He scratched at his head.  “He…he was scared that…uuuumm…she was gonna leave?”

“Bullshit!”

Clara’s eyes snapped to the middle of the room at Dorna.  “Dorna, you’ll get your turn.  And what did I say about language?”

Dorna folded her arms defiantly.  “He’s scared she’s gonna leave – that’s bull – _rubbish_!”  She huffed.  “Is that _every_ boy’s excuse then?  ‘Oh no, I can’t _possibly_ be _nice_ to ‘er ‘cause then she’ll know I like her!  An’ she might not like _me_ like that, so I’ll jus’ be an ar – uh – a complete _git_ – and then she won’t know and she won’t leave?’”

It was Clara’s turn to blink, and she found herself stammering.  “Uh – well, people can fear rejection – that’s very um – _human_ , don’t you think?”  The room suddenly felt warmer.

Dorna wasn’t having any of it, though.  “But that’s not even all there is – it’s like he gets to be the one who like, holds everythin’ back, and _she’s_ jus’ expected to go along with it!  He’s willin’ to base their _entire_ relationship on a lie!”

Some male voice muttered something about _ooh burnt_ and _two-timin’ Tom gonna get it_ , but Clara didn’t catch it.  Her world had narrowed to the fiery adolescent rage of Dorna McAllister.  That and the loud sound of her heartbeat in her ears.  “You mean the wife?”

“Yeah!”  Dorna shook her head in disgust.  “He’s like, ‘You an’ me, we’re the same, Jane, we’re like, totally built of the same stuff,’ talkin’ ‘bout them bein’ equals an’ all, but he don’ _treat_ her like that!  _He’s_ the one who decides if she stays or goes; _he’s_ the one who keeps holdin’ stuff back from her – if you ask me, he jus’ likes havin’ all the _power_.” 

Clara’s mouth had gone dry.  “Power?” she echoed, her voice sounding strangely far away.

“Yeah, power.”  Dorna sighed, her shoulders slumping, as if that was the most energy she’d expended in a while and it had physically drained her.  At the very least, it was the most energy she’d expended in Clara’s classroom in a while.  Dorna took a minute to gather herself, sounding almost sad.  “I mean, if you really love someone, you show it, right?  You don’ jus’ keep lyin’ and lyin’ and lyin’ – right?”  She raised her eyes, meeting Clara’s with a steady, almost pleading gaze.  “How is that _love_ , Miss Oswald?”

Clara’s mouth opened and closed, her fingers finding the edge of the desk and digging in, curling into the wood until her nails protested.  “Yes.  Good.”  She nodded, the motion making her head swim.  “Dorna, that’s good – that’ll be a good character study then, asking those questions, looking into that, very good.  Great essay topic, top notch.”  Her voice sounded shrill to her ears.

Blessedly, she only had to endure a few minutes of the questioning looks from her students as the bell rang soon after that.  Her escape to the lavatory was timely, though when the stall door slammed shut, she only sat down hard on the seat, head cradled in her hands as her world spun and spun.  Finally, she walked on shaky legs to the sink, splashing cold water on her face, but even that couldn’t eradicate Dorna’s earnest question that seemed to echo inside her brain.

_How is that love?_

It was everywhere:  in bold-faced type posters announcing upcoming chess club meetings, monthly raffle drawings and the annual fundraising bake sale that lined the school corridors; in the graffiti scrawled on the rusty boards across from the gated entrance to Coal Hill; in the flashing signs that announced her bus stop.  And when she discovered that it had followed her back to her Dad’s flat, finding it in elegant peach-coloured script in the crocheted platitudes that her step-mother loved to decorate with, she decided it was time to return home. 

She opened the door to her bedroom with a purposeful sweeping motion, determined to find the answer. 

The Pandora’s Box association no longer fit, as her mind had proved quite adept in taking the memories and twisting them in her dreams, embellishing to the point that _desk, cupboard_ and _bed_ were relatively tame by now.   

It had taken her all afternoon, but she thought she finally had the answer.

And so she marched over to her nightstand and wrenched open the drawer, plucking the culprit of the source of _all_ her woe from its hiding place.

The bloody translator.

It had taken her Doctor from her…

It had left her with a dead man’s voice, thoughts, feelings, desires to comfort and yet torment her for months and months…

It contained a message that lived on, that had been co-opted, seized by a man who hadn’t demonstrated even a _trace_ of what those words contained.

Or had he?

She hadn’t used the translation screen in a while, and it took her a few tries to find the right button.  But it whirred to life, and she watched with a single-minded intent:  _find the evidence.  Prove that it’s love._

Seeing the words scroll past brought the message to life for her again, made the meaning somehow more immediate.  There was “lost, broken and had given up all hope…and _you_ brought me to life again;” and “I suppose I never told you that it was _always_ Wednesday for me…that I filled my days with Wednesdays;” and “there are few things I have experienced in either this life or any of the previous ones that brought me the – the…how do I say this?  You were the windsong of my hearts, Clara.”  And finally there was, “many regrets, of course, but you?  All those times I almost reached for you, almost touched you, wishing I’d taken those cheeky little touches into something more defined, and _oh_ , believe me I’d thought about it.  I’d thought about all the ways I wanted to have you, all those rooms in the TARDIS – and yes, I mean _all_ of them.  I’d thought about it every time I would stand behind you when we looked at those views, how you’d react if I’d given in and started kissing you on the neck at Loktor, and how long it would’ve been before we lay down in the grass, and with your _skirts_ and _dresses”_ (he emitted a low chuckle) “it would’ve been _very_ easy, indeed…”

She stopped it, her familiar question sounding from her lips before she could stop it.  “So _why_ didn’t you?”

The familiar answers came back to her, tired and used:  because he ran out of time.  Because he didn’t want to ruin things between them.  Because he didn’t know how she felt.  Because because because…

She raised the translator, sliding down the edge of her bed and landing on the floor with a thud.  Her original instinct to smash it to pieces evaporated like breath on a mirror; this was all she had left of her Doctor.  She squeezed it between her palms, pressing it to her forehead.

“You wouldn’t have done this,” she whispered.  “You would _never_ have done…”  A sob welled up from her throat, cutting her off.  She bowed her head between her knees, shoulders quaking.  “Why?” she wanted to know.  She shook the translator.  “ _Why_ , Doctor?”

It was impossible to say who she was talking to, but a new answer bubbled up, settling over her.  A new “because”…

_Because he was a coward._

Because he wouldn’t have done this.  _Any_ of it.  Because it was only when he was dying, when he knew he was out of time and wouldn’t have to face her – that he’d allowed himself to pour his hearts out to her.  And yes, he’d left her with something to hold onto of him in fear of what might come next, something to reassure her in case the next face turned out to be…well – exactly like it had, actually (at least until the Earth-shattering revelation of last week) – but it had left her clinging to a ghost.

To the past.

Had she been so blinded that she hadn’t noticed the subtle shifts in the Doctor’s behaviour around her in the present?  Had he actually been demonstrating his want and his love of her, and she’d just been too biased against him for it to register?

But no…she couldn’t have done.  Because it wasn’t just that he’d stopped touching her – he’d stopped – so much of what he used to do.  More of the travel seemed work-related now than anything:  messes he wanted to fix; problems that needed solutions.  There were fewer and fewer of the trips like to Holi, where they went just for something _fun_.  She hadn’t been lying when she told Frederick that the Doctor planned all the trips – and it’s not like that hadn’t always been the case.  It’s just that he used to plan them with some sort of awareness of what she might actually enjoy.  Now it was about what _he_ wanted or decided or thought was best.  She barely got a say anymore.

Oh, right…that comment about _power_. 

She sighed, wiping at her eyes.  None of it was adding up for her. 

Good job she had another two weeks to sort it all out.

* * *

Unfortunately, Clara had even fewer answers by the third week.  Because by the third week, all of her unanswered questions were dominated by one thing and one thing only:

She.  Missed.  Him.

She missed the TARDIS; she missed the traveling; she missed the excitement and the anticipation of a new destination, a new time period, a new planet, a new alien race; she missed the running; she missed the thrill of being in a life-or-death situation and having to make split-second decisions.  Her life seemed painfully dismal and maddeningly penned-in and stagnant without the Doctor.

And she _did_ miss the Doctor.

It wasn’t the dull ache of missing the younger Doctor; this ache was fresher, sharper and more complicated.  She hadn’t gotten over her fury at him, and yet, she wished he’d show up early.  She wished he’d misjudge and show up a week early, not just his usual ten minutes - despite all of the complex emotions _that_ meeting would entail.   But she didn’t care.  She had never been apart from the Doctor for this long since she’d first met him, and it frightened her how much his absence weighed her down.  And how moody and on-edge she was without his mercurial moods to bring out her calmer and sane side.    

And then of course there was –

_Do you still love me?_

He’d want an answer, she was certain of it.  Unlike before he changed, this Doctor was direct, straight-to-the-point, with no dancing around an issue or dissembling.   When he didn’t want to provide an answer (or when he didn’t like it), he opted for silence, not lies.  Which had made his months and months of purposeful deception all the more shocking. 

By the end of the third week, she was so desperate for a distraction from the ever-growing pile of unanswered questions, that she actually texted Frederick. 

She didn’t hear from him for six days.

* * *

Clara broke down and rang Frederick that weekend and left what was quite possibly the most pathetic voicemail of her life.  She was hungry for something – _anything_ – to break up the monotony of her current existence, and finally, her prayers were answered.  He rang her back just a few minutes later, sounding out of breath as he navigated his way towards a Very Important Football Match at his local pub, The Oak  & Crown.  His invite was half-hearted, but Clara jumped at the opportunity, shocking him with her level of enthusiasm. 

It had all of the elements of a trip with the Doctor:  an unknown population with rituals and customs entirely foreign to her (not only were there specific drinks for specific team members but there were chants and nicknames for them, too); a life-or-death situation (judging by the mood of the crowd); having to make split-second decisions (should she politely decline the drink being offered her by the bloke with the scraggly ginger beard, using the excuse that she was there _with_ someone else?); and finally, educational.  Apparently _everyone_ called Frederick “Ricky.”

Still – there wasn’t that outlet for her pent-up energy:  watching all the running on the telly only made her restless, and the rest was a whole lot of sitting.  And drinking.  She might’ve been able to strike up conversations with some of them if they hadn’t been so bloody invested in the match.  So halfway through her second pint, she stole out to the back to get some air.

Frederick – _Ricky_ – was smoking a fag and texting.  She sauntered over to him, starved for even a half-friendly, half-awkward chat. 

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“All right,” he replied, sticking his mobile back in his pocket.  He gave her a sideways glance.  “You don’t really seem like you’re having all that much fun.”

Clara’s smile was apologetic.  “No, sorry.”  She shrugged.  “Guess it’s not really my thing.”

Ricky gave her a lopsided grin, making one of those “what are you gonna do?” gestures.  They both shook their heads.

She felt the need to fill the silence.  “And – sorry about not getting in touch earlier.  The last month has been a bit – um, difficult, I guess.”

He shrugged, looking unconcerned at her failed communication attempts.  It’s not like he had made any great effort, either.  “’S’all right.”

This time the silence was different, like they were so far apart that they were almost strangers.  Perhaps it was what she needed.  “I was seeing someone,” she admitted, the words feeling strange out of her mouth for the first time.  “Sort of.  I mean – have you ever met those pairs that everyone thinks is a couple?  Like – they finish each other’s sentences and they’re always flirting and always in each other’s space?  And everyone knows they’re a couple but them?”

Ricky gave a half-hearted shrug.  “Not really,” he said.

“Oh.”  She was sheepish for about three seconds.  “Well – I was in one of those situations.  And – that man that I travel with, the one I told you about?  It was his…younger brother.  Like a _lot_ younger, like twenty years, closer to my age.  That’s how I met him, actually.  ‘Cause I knew his younger brother first.”

Ricky frowned.  “Thought you said you met him at work, right?”

Clara ducked her head, her cheeks reddening at her lie.  “Yeah, that was um, that wasn’t true.  I just said that ‘cause…’cause I dunno.  It sounded better, I guess.”  She gave him a half-apologetic smile.

He didn’t seem terribly ruffled by her deception.  “Okay.”

“But the thing was,” she hurried on, “that I knew his younger brother before I knew him.  I didn’t even know he _had_ an older brother – they were…estranged.  So I traveled with this younger brother, and that was a lot of my life, but then the younger brother…”  She trailed off, her gaze fixing on the ground.  She could feel Ricky’s interest piquing more.  “He died,” she said quietly.  “And…right before he died, he let me know that he’d felt all these things for me, left it in a message, actually.  But then the older one stepped in, and took over.  And he was…well _is_ – really different.  Like seriously, almost complete opposite of his younger brother.  You’d never even know they were related.”

Ricky took a long drag off his cigarette, looking thoughtful.  “Huh,” was all he said.

“So, then I started traveling with the older one, and now _no one_ thought we were together or a couple because everything was so different between us.  Honestly, there were times when I wondered why he continued to travel with me ‘cause he didn’t always seem to – well, _care_.  About me.  I was feeling like he just needed someone to be his travel companion so he didn’t get lonely, and a lot of what I used to love just didn’t feel… _fun_ anymore.” 

A light misting of rain started falling on them.  But Clara didn’t move, watching the tiny beads of condensation land on her sleeves, little points of light that flickered and faded.

“But then about a month ago, the new one – the older brother – he…he basically told me that he had developed the same feelings for me as his younger brother had.  And…well, something happened between us.  It was confusing and I don’t know if it happened ‘cause I was missing his brother or if I really feel anything for him, or I was just tired of being alone or I don’t know what.  It’s just…it’s complicated,” she finished lamely. 

Ricky flicked his cigarette off to the side, stubbing it out with the toe of his boot.  “Wow.  Sounds like one of those shows my mum watches.”

“Oh?  Which one?”

He snapped his fingers a few times, hunting for the title.  “East somethin’, East – “

“’East Enders?’” Clara queried disbelievingly.

“Yeah, that’s it.  That’s the one.”

She huffed, arms tightening around her.  “Bit more sensational and dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah – that’s what I’m sayin’.  I prefer a simpler life.  No drama.”  He shook his head.

Her mouth thinned into a line.  “Not really a fan of it myself.”

“Sounds like you’ve been thinkin’ on it a lot, though.”

“Well, _yeah_ , but…”  She sighed, regretting her decision to talk to him.  “Never mind.  Sorry I brought it up, I didn’t mean to make anything more…” She motioned vaguely between the two of them.  “I didn’t think it would really…I dunno.  That you’d mind.”

He gave a half shrug.  “I don’t.”

It was difficult for her to decide between relief and genuinely peeved at his nonchalance.

He motioned with a jerk of his thumb.  “Think I’m gonna go back in – you wanna come?”

She may have emphasized her half-hearted shrug more than usual.  “I dunno.  Maybe in a minute.”

“Suit yourself.”  He toed the fully extinguished cigarette a few more times.  “And uh – y’know, you can come back any time you like.  Come out with us, I mean.”

Clara ducked her head.  “Um, thanks, Ricky, that’s nice of you.  But I don’t know if you and I should be –“

“Oh, no, I don’t mean like that.”  He shook his head, giving her a slightly bashful lopsided grin.  “I mean –I want a woman who’s gonna get excited by the same things.  Y’know – who likes the sorta life I like, content to jus’ go down to the pub and shoot the shit over a few pints with a bunch of mates and the match on.  No offence, Clara, but you’re clearly not that woman.”

She smiled.  He was so much more relaxed when he wasn’t _trying_ so hard.  “None taken.  And no – I’m definitely not.”

“I just thought…maybe you could use a friend.”

He was already looking in the direction of the door, the comment so offhand, so common, so _used_ and _familiar_ in these dating situations-gone-wrong, and yet…

Something slid into place inside her with a _click_.  Something so unexpected, she had to clear her throat from the lump that had formed there and make an effort to turn down the gratitude behind her smile.  “Yeah,” she agreed, her nod continuing for several seconds more than she’d planned.  “Yeah, I really could.  I’d like that.”


	8. Chapter 8

Clara was too keyed up and nervous to eat the night of the Doctor’s return.  Which was unfortunate because it was the one night she might actually have appreciated the distraction that cooking and a conversation with her flatmate Natalie would’ve provided.  She could’ve been learning about Mars being in retrograde – or was it Mercury? – and the various ways this might have interfered with her love life or her aura or her _chi_ or whatever.  Usually, Clara indulged Natalie’s whimsies with a bemused yet entirely non-judgmental smile.  Tonight, she might actually have asked for a detailed list of _every_ single possible woe that could befall her from such disastrous planet misalignment. 

_Anything in there about falling in love with a thousand-year-old alien who dotes on you and adores you and then changes his face and becomes a man who looks old enough to be your father who avoids you and treats you like a colleague – but then reveals that he still dotes on you and adores you and you kind of have sex with him but then he wiped your memory of it ‘cause he basically thinks he knows what’s best for you?_

Perhaps it was better she’d missed dinner after all. 

Maybe she could become _that_ person:  the one who gazed up at the night sky with that sense of wonder fully intact, content to ponder the mysteries of the Universe from the safety of her bedroom window.  Or join the ranks of people like Natalie, who laid her fingers between each of the celestial bodies, divining hidden meaning in their ever-changing positions.  _Oh look, Neptune is higher in the sky tonight.  Best remember to drink more water tomorrow._

Right.  Leaving it all behind.  ‘Cause _that_ would solve everything, wouldn’t it?

Except it wouldn’t.  Because every time she’d think of Neptune, she’d remember that one day, thousands of years in the future, there would be gleaming temples gracing its surface.  And any mention of Mars in retrograde would conjure up images of the unflinching glare of Grand Marshall Skaldak, ruthless in his despair for his lost people and his daughter. 

There would be no wonder for her in the cocoon of her bedroom.  It was all out there, still - in the moments she got to see, to experience.  To live. 

Then maybe it was time she grew up, she reasoned.  Let someone else have a go – let someone else learn the wonders of the Universe.  Perhaps she had seen all she needed to.

She surprised herself as the corners of her mouth lifted in a wistful smile.  She could just imagine what the previous face might’ve said if she’d declared it was time for her to grow up.  Or – more accurately – the utter shock and bewilderment he would’ve exhibited.  _Grow up, Clara?!  You think it’s time to grow up?_   He would’ve scoffed.  _Well – I’ll certainly fix that!_   And then he would’ve grabbed her hand, whisking her off to –

She laid her palms flat on her dresser.  “No,” she told her reflection.  “Stop it.”  The spectre vanished.

No more ghosts.

No more wishing. 

No more wistfulness, no nostalgia, no yearning for what was past.

If she wanted something to change, well – she needed to ask for it.  That’s all there was to it.

And as if on cue, the sounds of the TARDIS materialising sounded outside.

(break)

The Doctor hadn’t been the only one anticipating her arrival:  the TARDIS doors swung open with the lightest push of her fingertips.  She stepped inside, breathing in the surroundings she hadn’t seen in far too long.  Had it really only been one month?  “Hello,” she murmured, brushing her fingers along the railing.  “I missed you.”

The answering hum vibrated gently underneath the pads of her fingers, almost like a purr.

“Hello, Clara.” 

She was struck by the memory of the first time he’d stood in that exact spot and uttered those same words, looking every bit the captain of the most powerful ship in the Universe.  Then he’d taken that power and used it to insult her, jeer at her, mock and deride her in every way, throwing jibe after jibe until finally he delivered the startling revelation of his identity.

“Hi,” she said simply.

How their roles had reversed:  now _she_ was the one with all the power, and he was completely at her mercy.  She could do the same to him:  mock him, insult him, hit _him_ at his most vulnerable.  It’d be every bit within her right.

“How was your month?” he asked, the question far from casual-sounding.

“Long.”  She joined him at the console, maintaining a safe distance as she dropped her bag onto the chair.  She thought about sitting but her nerves had reignited at her proximity to him. 

“Did you do anything fun or – interesting?”  The strain in his voice was almost painful now.

“Not really.”  She hadn’t planned on revenge, exactly, but this might be the best path for it:  letting the conversation die so he was forced to keep it going.  Letting every painful silence ring loud and clear through his immeasurable ship, keep him on his toes, poised and ready for any kind of attack, be it mildly veiled threat or cutting blow.  Or even just a string of long, awkward pauses that made him squirm.

“Oh.”  He sounded confused.

Clara sighed, abandoning her plans for revenge.  “I mean – I went to a pub to watch a match.  Guess that was something.”

“Right!”  The Doctor seized upon this piece of information greedily, wringing every bit of conversation-fodder he could from it.  “And – was that fun then?”

“Not exactly.  I’m not really a football fan.”

“Oh.”

Now Clara was starting to squirm herself, and her torrent of words tumbled over each other in her effort to break the tension.  “So, then, how ‘bout you?  Did you do anything fun or interesting since…well, I dunno how long it’s been for you, actually, so maybe not.”  She gave a nervous laugh.

Mercifully, he had a reply to that.  “I took some time myself.  I went and visited some friends on Orion’s Belt.”

“The constellation?”

The Doctor smirked.  “No, the planet.  Though I made a pass through the constellation on the way back.  I also um – stopped by the moon.”  He looked slightly sheepish.

“Oh.”  Clara could feel her cheeks redden.  “You mean where you took me on our first date,” she said before she could stop herself.

“I was joking,” he insisted.

Clara shot him a look.  “No, you weren’t.”

He looked peeved at this, casting his eyes down and mumbled something about how he’d _wanted_ to be. 

This time, Clara vowed that _he_ needed to be the one to break the silence.

It didn’t take him long.  “So just a visit to a pub, then?  I traveled hundreds of thousands of light years away and you only ventured out once for a drink?”

She cut her eyes at him.  “It’s not like I had any _choice_.”

He spread his hands.  “Of course you had a choice – you could’ve called me back earlier if you were that bored.”

“That wasn’t the point, Doctor.”  She heaved a sigh of exasperation.  “And I didn’t just go out for a drink - I mostly went ‘cause Frederick – _Ricky_ – asked me.”  The Doctor didn’t need to know that she’d practically invited herself because she _had_ been that bored. 

The name meant nothing to him, and he unwittingly pressed on.  “Ricky?  Is that a friend of yours?”

“No.  Well…”  It wasn’t really lying when they’d _just_ decided to be friends, was it?  And Clara couldn’t resist goading him.  “He’s the one I went on that date with.”

It had the desired effect:  the muscles of the Doctor’s face twitched and he finally dropped his head as he busied himself with a few needless switch-flipping motions.  “I see.”  He seemed to be gathering himself for his next question.  “So you’re…dating him, then.”

What had probably started as a question ended as a statement.  A cold, hard fact, as unavoidable as death and taxes.  And laced with such resigned defeat that Clara couldn’t help her quiet reply.

“No.  No, I’m not dating him.  He’s not really my type,” she admitted.  “And I’m not really his, either, actually.  He wants someone who’s going to like the same things he likes, who’ll want to do the same things he does.”  She snickered.  “He’ll probably end up with someone who grew up in the same town as him, actually.” 

“Well, that’s rubbish.”  He scoffed.  “Why would you ever want that?  I much prefer it the other way around – far more interesting.  Perhaps we can take him to the planet of Dolly Dolly.”

“What’s…Dolly Dolly?”

“The original planet of human clone-based population.  Then he can specify whether to keep it male or make it female,” he remarked drily. 

She couldn’t help the way her lips quirked at that.  “Yeah.  He actually might go for that.”

There was a brief pause.  “What about you?”

She shot him a quizzical look.  “What about me?”

He was back to trying for the casual thing again.  “Well, you said he’s not really your type, so…what is?”

Clara bravely looked him full in the face for the first time, and yes, there was a yearning there, but it was also an honest, open question.  “I don’t know,” she admitted, suddenly pensive.  “I guess…I know what I like, but only when I see it.  I don’t want someone who’s exactly like me, but I don’t know how well I’d get on with someone who’s my complete opposite.”

He was struggling with something, and she was fairly certain she knew what it was.  “And…what about me?  Do you…do you like me?”

She regarded him a moment, as his final, desperate question hung unanswered in the air between them.

_Do you still love me?_

“Is that really the question you wanted to ask?”  There was no edge to her voice, her question softer than she’d intended.

He gave her a rueful smile.  “I thought it might be an easier one to answer.”

She was quiet, gathering her thoughts.  “I’ve been thinking a lot about it the last month, actually.  Not just – what you asked me, but about loving someone and liking someone, and how you can have one without the other.  You can like someone but not love them, and you can love someone but not like them.  Or you can have both together, which, of course, is the best kind – y’know what I mean?”

The Doctor’s eyebrows drew together in contemplation.  “I…” he began.  “No, not really,” he finally said.

Clara sighed, her gaze affixing to the helmic regulator.  “What I’m trying to say is…”  She took a deep breath and met his eyes.  “When I first met you, I knew that you liked me – I could tell.  I’ve told you before that it was obvious, and it helped that I liked you, too.”  Her smile was almost shy.  “But then it grew – it grew into love, and well…I could feel that, too.  Because you started taking me on all those _wonderful_ trips.  You took me to places you knew I’d like – places you knew I’d _love_ , and why?  Because love is selfless.  I’m not saying you didn’t like them, too, or that you didn’t have a good time, but I know that’s not the main reason you took me to them.”  She tried to control the yearning in her eyes.  “You took me ‘cause it made me happy, and back then, that was enough for you.”  She bit her lip.  “You said in your message that I brought you joy, Doctor, and I could feel that, how you used to – no.”  She stopped, realising how easily she was slipping back into talk of the past.  “What I’m saying is - I used to bring you joy.  I used to be the light of your life.  The ‘windsong of your hearts.’”  Her smile was sad.  “But how could you say that’s still true now?  How could you say that I bring you joy, peace – bliss? – when you act like all I bring you is pain?”

As if to confirm her point, a pained expression passed across his face.

“I’m not the light of your life – not anymore.  Not if touching me burns you or makes you feel like you’re bursting into flames.”

He dropped his eyes at that, shifting uncomfortably.

“Yeah, I heard what you said that night.  And I mean, it makes sense that you’d avoid me if that’s how you felt.  But Doctor…that’s not love.”

He raised his head at that, looking more than a little miffed.  “What do you mean?”

“It’s desire.”  It was her turn to shift uncomfortably.  “What you’ve been feeling is desire.  Not love.”

The Doctor’s eyes flashed, defensive.  “Maybe I just love differently now.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be around someone who loves me like that,” she replied firmly.  “And that wasn’t even what I wanted to say, I mean – that _is_ what I wanted to say, but I needed to say something else, too.”  She took another breath, steeling herself for the next bit.  “Even if I knew you loved me, even if we had all of that – we were never actually a couple.  I mean – we were never lovers.  And with the message you left me and the way you said your goodbyes and then with everything that happened a month ago – I thought maybe that’s what I’d been missing.  But if we were never lovers, then how could I miss that?  The truth is that I couldn’t.  But I knew I missed _something_.  I missed…knowing you’d be there for me.  I missed knowing you’d have my back; that I could count on you no matter what, that I wouldn’t have to wonder whether you cared.  I missed…”  Her voice broke unexpectedly, and she pressed her lips together to keep her tears at bay.  “I _miss_ …I miss my friend.  I want my friend back.”

The Doctor nodded slowly, though he looked doubtful.

“And I know you said you couldn’t be one, but I’m telling you now that if you want to patch things up, then you’re gonna have to be.  At least to start.”

He regarded her, his expression appropriately solemn.  “Understood.  Just…one question.”

“What?”

“When did I say I couldn’t be your friend?”

Clara folded her arms, suddenly feeling self-conscious.  “When I was asking you why you couldn’t hug me after…after the Gruhflane.  I told you I needed a friend and you said you couldn’t even be a friend to me.  Which, speaking of hugging…”  She dropped her eyes to the console again, tracing the outline of one of the panels.  “You can’t treat me like I’ve got some sort of horrible, contagious disease anymore.  I mean, I get that you’re not really a hugging person now and I get why you – avoided me before, but Doctor, part of having someone’s back is by – _being_ there.  Sometimes by _actually_ having their back, or – I dunno, giving them an ‘I’m-glad-you’re-not-dead’ pat.  Traveling with you is amazing – it’s exhilarating and it’s incredible and it can be so much _fun_ , but it’s also dangerous.  And I don’t want to feel like I’m just your colleague doing a job with you.  So whatever hang-ups you have about being near me – you’re just gonna have to get over them.”  She didn’t add – wouldn’t even let herself _think_ \- that she might have hang-ups herself now.               

He nodded with a stiff sense of duty.  “Okay.  Understood.”

“Good.”  She drummed her fingers on the console.  “So…what do you think?  Can you do all that?”

There might have been a brief flash of discomfort or uncertainty but it vanished, giving way to one of calm acceptance.  “Yes.  Of course.”  It seemed he was engaging in some sort of internal struggle, but then he shot a hand out awkwardly.  “Friends?” he offered.

Clara eyed it a moment, rooted to the spot.  Then she forced herself to move, taking two steps closer, just enough to meet his hand.  She swallowed, giving him an unconvincing smile as she tentatively clasped her fingers around his palm –

\- _his hands trailing up her arms, over her collarbone, curling as they dipped to knead at her –_

She dropped his hand like his touch had burnt her, inhaling shakily.  His wounded look was difficult to ignore, so she clapped her palms around his shoulders, then his elbows, her grip firm.  “Friends,” she agreed.

This time it was the Doctor’s smile that was unconvincing.  


	9. Chapter 9

In his inestimable opinion, there were very few things that the Doctor was absolute _rubbish_ at.

Football was one of them – he’d had to concede after his regeneration that his aged bones that creaked and crackled did not take impact very well.  Mostly it was his damned knees, which were none too thrilled when he tried to bounce the football off of them or his confounded ankles and thighs when he attempted a kick.  Most sports were off the table altogether, which was unfortunate given the noticeable improvement in his coordination. 

He was rubbish at lying now, too, which was also most unfortunate.  Lies seemed to roll of his previous face’s tongue, but now he found that while he could talk his way _around_ situations, keeping whoever he needed to convince engaged enough to escape whatever scrape he’d gotten them into, he could never outright say something he knew was completely false in a way that sounded even mildly believable.  He usually had to wait until Clara could chime in and provide a slightly more convincing story than what he had concocted.

Ah, Clara. 

Out of all the things he was absolute rubbish at, Speaking Clara, Translating Clara, and Understanding Clara had climbed to the very top of that short list.  But most of all, he was rubbish at Being Friends With Clara.

It wasn’t that he didn’t try.  On the contrary – he’d taken great pains to listen to what she needed from him and make the changes accordingly.   

For instance, there was how he referred to her when asked about their relationship.  She had said that she felt like she was just his colleague, helping him do a job and admittedly, he had cultivated this dynamic on purpose.  Before, he had used formal terms and phrases about _working together_ and _companion_ to deflect the inevitable assumptions about what they were to each other.  But now he decided he would make up for this error in judgment by using effusive phrases, full of feeling yet still entirely platonic:  _she’s the wonderful person who puts up with me; she’s the one who keeps me sane; Clara is my compass for kindness and compassion – without her, I’d be lost._   He even began to relish the times when he could correct a misunderstanding:  _no, no, no – she’s not my assistant.  If anything, she’s the one who leads and I’m lucky if I can keep up with her!_

Clara, however, did not seem to share his relish.

Or so he learned after one particular excursion to the Cliffs of Eppertaff, when they’d had to take shelter from an unpredictably violent lightning storm in a rundown little cottage owned by the near-sighted, elderly Mr. Thinsekki.  He didn’t say much to them as they waited out the danger inside, huddled on opposite ends of a piece of furniture that might once have been a couch.  When the sky had calmed down and they started to leave, he chose that moment to admonish the Doctor for “risking the life of your own flesh and blood.”  The Doctor opened his mouth to correct him, but Clara beat him to it for once, rushing in with, “I’m just his friend.”

The Doctor’s mouth had slowly closed into a tight-lipped smile.  He told himself he had no reason to feel crushed by the term, diminutive as it sounded.  That even though calling Clara his _friend_ was akin to calling a crater a hole in the ground, it was what she wanted.   

But that wasn’t all because…well, apparently he was rubbish at friendly touching, too.

It started with their trip back from the planet of Lalynth, where they had gotten lost and ended up having to cut a path through a forest of metamorusks:  annoyingly telepathic creatures that morphed into whatever form the person found the most repugnant.  Completely harmless, of course, but they usually chose to take insect-like forms and no one liked to be caught in a swarm of hundreds of spindly legs, antennae and wings.  All the metamorusks that descended on Clara had instantly changed into various sized spiders, but she kept her cool as the Doctor sent out pulses to incapacitate them.  It wasn’t until they’d reached the TARDIS that the Doctor noticed there was still an oddly shaped thing in her hair.  Without thinking, he reached towards her face, causing her to recoil. 

“What are you doing?”

“Hold still – a metamorusk got stuck in your hair.”  It proved more difficult to extricate after the onset of rigor mortis, which had frozen it in its arachnid form.  She winced noticeably at the crunching sound as he pulled, finally wrenching it free. 

“Is it gone?”

“Yes, it’s…oh.  No, not quite.”  One if its legs had detached in the process and now protruded at a crazy angle from her ponytail.  He went to remove it, but she took a step back.  “You’ve still got a leg left in there.”

“That’s okay,” she answered breezily as she turned away from him.  “I’ll get it myself.”

Did friends not touch each other’s hair?  Hadn’t he routinely touched her hair from time to time before he’d changed?  She hadn’t had a problem with it back, then, had she?

Or did his hands in her hair recall to her mind the same memories it did for him?  Removing her hairpins that night, fingers carefully unraveling every one of her curls, the brush of his fingertips as his knuckle grazed her neck, the sound of her breath catching…

Perhaps it was best he kept his hands out of her hair, after all.

Yet after their trip to Lalynth, he began to question whether it was his hands in her hair – or his hands near _any_ part of her body that offended her.     

Whether he was helping her down the slippery, muddy hills on the Island of Perpetual Myst or navigating a crowded marketplace in 36th century Taiwan, she would not keep hold of his hand – and she kept wriggling away from it whenever he placed it on the small of her back.  She insisted that taking his arm was “steadier” as they picked their way down the treacherous slopes and she even stopped in the middle of Mei’Kang-To Square so she could back up a few steps and keep pace with him.  When he came up with the feeble excuse that her arms weren’t always accessible, she shot him a look and linked her arm rather forcibly through his with a “now they’re accessible!”

Yes, the Doctor had to concede that he was absolute rubbish at friendly touch, even as they fell into a kind of uneasy if predictable rhythm.  He was now careful not to let his hands anywhere near her, opting instead to link arms.  The smile that she gave him each time stretched taut across her face, like she had to steel herself for even _this_ casual level of touching.    

They might have continued this uneasy rhythm indefinitely were it not for the Doctor’s attempt to fulfill a favour to Strax - possibly in an unconscious bid to earn back some of Clara’s good will.   He might very well have resigned himself to the inevitable conclusion that this strained friendship they’d developed between them was the most they could have now. 

If he could even call it _friendship_ anymore.  He wasn’t sure what they were to each other now.

The errand seemed straightforward:  travel to an abandoned military base.  Retrieve some lost piece of technology which the Doctor assumed was some type of weaponry.  Bring it back to Strax.

Had the base’s barren landscape reminded her of Oalogtu?  He couldn’t be sure, but as they stepped out of the TARDIS onto the miles of dusty terrain, she seemed immediately on edge.  Maybe it was the unnatural quiet in the air, similar to the hush they experienced before her capture by the Gruhflane.  Or maybe it was because Strax had promised that this piece of technology was “highly visible.  Not even a young human offspring would have difficulty locating it!”  Maybe Clara was feeling insulted by his psychotic potato dwarf of a friend for comparing her to a child.  Maybe she didn’t like feeling stupid.  Whatever the reason, however, she barged ahead, leaving him quite literally in the dust.

His initial readings didn’t reveal anything surprising:  most of the technology was apparently underground, lying dormant for an army that would never use it, left to rust over, deteriorate and decay.  He might as well have been standing in a graveyard.

But as he widened his scan, the readings increased in number – and viability.  In fact, the further into the base he walked, the more viable the technology became, erasing his initial assessment entirely.  Running the sonic over the trail of Clara-sized footprints, he was shocked to discover that the readings were very live, indeed, as if each of her determined strides had disturbed the slumber of the sleeping tech, waking them up to their cause.  And, more alarmingly, they seemed to be signaling to each other:  the tech in the field Clara was about to enter was already wide awake and armed to –

“Clara - Clara!”

Her pace didn’t falter.  “What?”

“Clara – wait!” 

He hurried to catch up to her as she neared the field, but she blundered on, completely oblivious to the peril she was fast approaching. 

“What is it?  Did you find it?”

He practically sprinted now, his joints protesting with each long-legged stride.  “It’s all waking up – the more you keep walking, the more it - Clara – stop!  _Stop_!”

And she might have continued to ignore him and kept right on walking – but he reached her, grabbing her round the waist and shoulder, physically preventing her from taking another step. 

He felt her go rigid.  “ _What are you doing_?” she grit out after a few moments of shocked silence.

“Saving your life.  You were about to step into a minefield.”

She gave a few irritated huffs, restless against him.  “Well, you could have –”

“Shh!”

She stopped shifting, but he’d already heard an unmistakable _click_. 

“ _Don’t move_!” he hissed, his grip tightening.  “You’ve triggered it.  One more move and we both go up.”

It was her turn to hiss.  “I thought this was supposed to be a training facility!”

“Yes, well, apparently they wanted it to be very realistic.”  Keeping one arm snugly around her waist, he slowly maneuvered his other arm, flicking through the settings.  “It’s Sontaran – a few hundred or even a few thousand casualties would probably have been considered a typical training day for them.”  Aiming the sonic at their feet, he pressed it purposefully before sweeping it in a ten-foot diameter ahead of them, carefully disarming each individual mine, sending them back to sleep.   

“Almost done?”  Her impatience was palpable.

Normally, he would’ve said something slightly apologetic – but he found himself growing irritated.  “Why – am I disarming hundreds of mines too slowly for your liking?  Do you have any particular place you need to be?”

“No, just –”

“Do you have a hot date?” 

His question had a galvanising effect on both of them, freezing his outstretched arm over her shoulder.  Clara had gone deathly quiet, as pliable as stone.

“ _Not_ that it’s any of your business, but I was just wondering how long you would have to keep your…”  He could almost hear the _snap_ of her mouth as she bit down on her next word.

“Keep my what?”

“Just – have you at least finished disarming the one underneath us?”   

“Keep my _what_?” he asked again, tugging slightly at her waist to emphasise its presence there.

Returned to life again, her agitated breathing was the only sound for a few moments.  “Fine.  Do you have to keep your arm around me?”

He tilted his head down, breathing the words into her ear.  “And what if I didn’t, hmm?  What if I were just using it…as an excuse?” 

“An excuse?” Her voice had suddenly grown raspy, her irritated tone gone.  “Excuse for what?”

He closed his eyes, breathing her in, waiting for his nerves to ignite like the last time he came into such close proximity with her.  But something different was stirring inside of him, something…new.  There was no rush of chemicals to set everything ablaze:  no skin on fire, no nerve endings getting singed as he burned for her.  This flood _warmed_ him - muscles relaxing, hearts swelling at her nearness.  Everything inside of him was… _sighing_.

Eyes closed, awash in sensation, his next words were soft and raw.  “You told me not to treat you like you had an infectious disease, and that’s what I’ve been doing.  But now it seems like _I’m_ the one with the infectious disease.  Are you just trying to give me a taste of my own medicine, is that it?”

She was trembling now.  “Excuse for what?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

The longer he held her, the more he felt his nerves unwind, the sighing in his body gradually increasing to a cry, then a wail of longing, of _need_.  He’d _needed_ this.

_I…miss you._

Abruptly, he let her go, taking two steps back to put some distance between them.  “They’re all disarmed now, but I don’t think we should take any chances with the rest of the base, do you?”

Her back was still to him, and he noticed her arms had wound tightly around her middle, fingers clutching at the fabric of her jacket.  She shook her head.  “No.”

“Good.  I’ll find another way to make it up to Strax.  There are _plenty_ of weapons in this Universe that he’d enjoy…just a matter of sorting out which ones I’d actually feel comfortable handing over to him.”

She nodded again, finally turning around.  Her gaze was firmly fixed to a spot off his left shoulder.  “Yeah,” she began, her voice still raspy.  She must have noticed it for she cleared her throat.  “That wouldn’t be good.”  Then she squared her body, and resumed her original pace like nothing had transpired at all, retracing her steps back to the TARDIS.  Except now, her whole body seemed to quake, her feet finding grooves and divots in the ground that she had so deftly avoided before.  And she was noticeably hurrying, like something was chasing her.

The Doctor sighed, and slowly followed her, his joints aching at the mere sight of her swiftly retreating back.

Though he had to concede that maybe it wasn’t just his joints that ached.

So when he returned to the TARDIS, he was surprised to find her waiting near the console, absorbed in her thoughts.  She started when he closed the doors, arms going protectively around her middle again, but she stayed where she was. 

“Are you up for another trip?  There’s an art installation I thought we could check out next.”

“You mean for Strax?  I thought we were looking for weapons for him.”

“It’s a very special art installation, believe me.” 

She gave a slight nod, looking pensive again as he readied the coordinates and sent them spinning off through the vortex. 

“Why are you helping him?” she finally asked after they’d landed with a thud.

The Doctor was miffed.  “Because he’s a friend.”

Clara shook her head dismissively.  “Yeah, but…”  She trailed off, possibly at the expression on his face which had gone from slightly miffed to outright wounded.

“But you don’t think I can be a friend, do you?” he finished for her quietly. 

She immediately cast her eyes downward.  “That’s not what I said,” she muttered.

“No, it wasn’t.  It’s just what you were thinking.”  He turned towards the doors. 

“And how would you know what I was thinking?  Have you been inside my head again?” she fired back.

He winced at her low blow.  “No, I don’t have to.”  He motioned at her.  “I can do it from here.  Because you’ve made _quite_ clear what you think of my friendship.”

Clara folded her arms.  “I don’t…”  She sighed, her shoulders slumping.  “These things take time.  And I thought we could start over, but…”  She shook her head resignedly.  “You can’t do that.  You can’t just – wipe the slate clean.  And sometimes I think that maybe we should…I dunno.”

Something painful was lodging itself in his chest.  “Maybe we should what?”

Her expression turned doleful.  “Stop trying.  That it’s got nothing to do with what we’re doing or not doing.  That it’s just not gonna work ‘cause…’cause _we_ don’t work.”  She shook her head slowly.  “I just don’t think we work anymore, Doctor.”

This time the Doctor could feel every organ in his body recoil and tighten, his insides diminishing by the second, dwindling to nothing.  His knuckles suddenly screamed in agony and he instinctively flexed them to alleviate the pain.  “Well,” he began, his voice belying none of his internal meltdown.  “We’re already here, so…”  He swallowed, his hand tightening around the knob. 

“Yeah.” Clara followed him to the door.  “And – I don’t mean we need to stop now, just…we should think about it.  Or at least start thinking about it.”

He didn’t trust his voice to work properly again so he merely nodded, grateful that they had landed in a supply cupboard right next to the exhibits and would need to be believable members of the exhibit-viewing population straightaway.  Clara followed him quietly as he whipped out the psychic paper that identified them as Installation Inspectors and made their way through the various floating, swirling, blinking and even windy and rainy pieces.  They spoke little to each other, resuming that professional rapport they’d developed between them before…everything. 

 _Everything_. 

Or, as he had started calling it, The Biggest Mistake in Twelve Hundred Years. 

In his weaker moments, he had been sorely tempted to break the rules again and return to the night of her date so he could rewrite time, set the clock back and undo the whole mess.  Showing up earlier than his past self, hiding the translator somewhere so he couldn’t find it; returning to earlier in the evening before her date and insist on taking her on a trip that he would drag out over several weeks or even months, rewriting their experiences together.  He’d even considered showing up and giving his past self a stern talking to – or maybe even a few slaps.  And when his past self reacted indignantly as he _knew_ he would, inform him that it was better than receiving them from Clara in the future, and warn him that if they didn’t erase the moment that had set them on this wretched course, he would witness the slow dissolution of their relationship and the end of their time together.  Remind himself that it was _Clara_ they were talking about – and that alone should be enough to shut him up. 

Yes, he was definitely having one of those weak moments.

His mind raced as they rounded a corner, stopping briefly as the group in front of them read the description of the next piece aloud before making some sort of exclamations and heading back the other way.  He didn’t catch what they said and he wondered if Clara had, either:  she hadn’t even seem fazed by the downpour that had accompanied the last exhibit, mechanically ringing out the ends of her jacket without fanfare or complaint. 

If either one had been paying any attention, they might have realised why the group ahead of them had opted not to enter the next exhibit.  But they hadn’t, so it wasn’t until the Doctor was standing on a life-sized landscape that depicted the oxygen-free moon of Push’tu that he noticed anything was wrong.

His lungs started to protest, but he closed his eyes and overrode the faulty signals, sending clear messages to them: _this is a psychological exhibit; there is still oxygen in the room.  Don’t listen or let my brain tell you otherwise._ After a few seconds of struggle, he was able to breathe normally.

Clara, however, did not have the same control over her systems if the gasps and choking sounds were any indication.

Immediately snapped out of his reverie, he whirled around, keeping his voice calm.  “Clara, it’s in your head.”

“What?  How can you -?”

“It’s in your head.  Tell your lungs that there’s still oxygen in the room.”

She shook her head, eyes wide, frantically clutching at her throat.  “I can’t…” 

He crouched down to her now, meeting her at eye level.  “Listen to me, Clara.  _You’re_ _fine_.  There’s plenty of oxygen in the room for you to breathe.”  He took a noisy deep breath to illustrate.  “See?”

But she could only answer with shallow gasps, tears forming in her eyes at the effort – or the fear of choking to death.  “I can’t…”

“ _Yes_ , you can!”  Desperate now, he planted his hands on her shoulders, willing to shake some oxygen into her if need be.  “Clara, _breathe with me_.”

It was no use – a faint sheen was forming on her forehead as she fought against the faulty signals her brain was sending her lungs.  She was going to pass out within the next minute if he didn’t act quickly.

So he pulled a rope out of one of his cavernous pockets and handed it to her.  “Here - we’re going to jump rope.”

“But –” she gasped, “how?  I…can’t breathe, Doctor –“

“No, you can’t breathe, but do your legs still work?”

She shot him a glare in the midst of her shallow gulps.  “My legs?”

“Yes, yes – your legs.  That’s all you need to jump rope, right?  Now come on – I’ll do it with you.  One…two….”  And he jumped, mimicking the motion for her.

Somehow, she managed to catch up to him, panting each of the numbers at first, and then gradually, keeping perfect time with little effort.  When she reached seventeen, she frowned at him, seemingly asking how long she was to keep it up.  But he kept going, right until she reached twenty-five and then thirty when she stopped out of sheer exhaustion, doubling over.

He laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing a little.  “Are you all right?  Better now?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” she breathed, surprising him by laying a hand on top of his, her touch light but unwavering.  “Thanks.”

He almost withdrew his hand, the contact too painful so soon after their previous conversation, but then he felt it:  the unmistakable pressure of her fingertips as they lightly curled around the outside of his.  So he said, “Anytime,” hoping that she would get his meaning.

She gave him a small smile that grew a little when his thumb pressed against her fingers.  They shared a lingering look, the first steady eye contact between the two of them in months.

And then the moment passed, and they moved on to the next exhibit.  The passage narrowed as they rounded the corner, causing them to bump into each other.  Clara’s laugh was a little shaky, but it didn’t sound forced.

“Go ahead,” she indicated with that same small smile.

The Doctor swept his arm in front of him.  “Ladies first.”

This smile was bigger, warmer and more genuine than anything he’d seen in a while and the Doctor followed her down the corridor on joints that no longer ached, feeling younger with every step.


	10. Chapter 10

It was a truth the Doctor had long known, had learned over and over again and yet, somehow still managed to surprise him every time:  the universe was vast and complicated, wonderful and terrible – and positively brimming with paradoxes.

Some of them made him chuckle – like discovering the Rentrallax, a giant half-lion and half serpent-like creature that had been chasing its own tail for centuries; some of them made him gasp in horror like discovering the impossible planet that orbited a black hole; and some of them made him throw his hands up in defeat because they involved humans, who more often than not proved to be the most paradoxical creatures of them all.

Naturally, Clara Oswald had climbed to the top of this list.

She was his Impossible Girl so it should’ve made a certain amount of sense:  he should’ve expected that the woman who had demanded of him to stop treating her like she had an infectious disease, to have her back, to be her friend – would not warm to him when he was Trying to Be Friends with her.  That the only way to be friends with her…was to stop _trying_ to be friends with her.

Unlike other paradoxes, however, there was no one moment that clued him into this discovery:  no _aha_!, no revelation that brought with it a clear understanding, an _I-see-this-is-how-it-is-now_.  It was slow, it was gradual and it was, at times, still awkward, this painstaking trajectory that set him on the path that would put their friendship…relationship…whatever they were - back on track.  Like all things human-related, it took time.  Lots and lots of time.  But most of all, it took space.

Ever since he had changed, it seemed that the space between him and Clara had rarely been comfortable or natural for either of them.  His own discomfort at how much he wanted to touch her had led him to shun her and eschew all forms of contact at first, leaving her feeling hurt, unwanted and unloved.  Then he’d foolishly overcompensated after restoring her memory of their one night together, and every time he’d tried to touch her after that had made Clara act like _his_ touch had become physically repulsive to her.  He’d even bitterly asked her in a moment of weakness if she had just been trying to give him a taste of his own medicine. 

So he had compensated again, backing off a bit but not so much that he was ever very far away.  He stopped feeling rejected when she turned down an offer of his arm, like when they had attended the coronation of Queen Victoria.  He didn’t expect she would hold onto his hand after they had carefully picked their way over the black ice-covered hills on the frozen planet of Ukonaful, giving it a slight squeeze before dropping it.  He swore his hearts had stopped when the sand had nearly swallowed her whilst traipsing through one of the deserts on the planet of Sahara - but despite everything in him that yearned to gather her to him, to hold her close, to feel her warmth and her nearness and the rise and fall of her breath, he did not hug her.  Instead, he rubbed her shoulders reassuringly and searched out her eyes, letting every bit of worry and relief show through on his face.  It seemed to have some kind of effect because she confessed in a shaking voice that she had been scared, and he immediately replied that he had, too.  Yet even when she leaned into him after that, folding her arms so they were tucked into his chest, he had not done more than cup her shoulder blades and murmur that she was safe now.  

And so it continued like that:  an unspoken understanding gradually developing between them – a give-and-take that wasn’t there before.  Because the more space he gave her…the more she sought him out. 

There was that time when she startled him by taking his hand and positioning it so she could hold his arm when the passage in the ancient catacombs of Paris suddenly narrowed.  She’d even let her hand trail down his forearm to gently curl her fingers around his palm – and even though it might have been for expediency, he still took it as a positive sign.  She kept trying to find ways to stay connected to him as they wove their way through a teeming, packed city square in 5th century Guangzhou, grabbing at first his arm, then his sleeve, and finally, in a move that made his breath hitch, taking his hand and bringing it towards her waist.  He let it inch to the small of her back and even kept it there for a good five minutes after they’d emerged from the throng.  And it could have been his imagination, but she may even have leaned back slightly into it at one point.

After all this time, they had finally relaxed into a dynamic that he would definitely have identified as _friendly_.  Relaxed and easy.  And above all – utterly tension-free.

And this was why he’d thought nothing of it when one evening he casually informed her that she needed to find formal attire for the fundraiser they had been invited to. 

“How formal are we talking?  Like cocktail dress or ball gown?”

He must have looked as confused as he felt because she chuckled and asked if there was an actual invitation.  When he thrust the piece of paper at her, her lips had formed an impressed “ooh” and then she informed him she’d need a minute “or so” to get ready. 

“It’s a time machine, Clara, you can take all the time you need,” he reminded her good-naturedly.

“Yeah, yeah,” she countered, waving a hand dismissively and smirking.

This was how friendship was, wasn’t it?  Easy laughter and teasing, playful shoves and smirks – and a feeling of such peace when they were together that they could sometimes sit or stand in complete silence with each other.  Like that time they’d returned to Cedaraius because he’d neglected to show her the ice crystal caves up close the first time.  She had walked in ahead of him, her gasps and soft sounds of amazement echoing through the caves as she turned around, her eyes shining and asked him why they were there.  When he’d replied that he felt she had missed out on their intricacy and complexity the first time because they’d been so far away, she had given him a look he couldn’t identify.  And when he had come to sit down next to her, she had immediately taken his hand, squeezing it and not letting go.   

He caught himself smiling in the mirror as he dressed in one of his most formal suits.  And then he caught himself letting out a happy sigh as he finished tying his string tie.  No, there didn’t need to be hugs or holding or hands in the other’s hair.  That’s not how friends were.   

Then Clara entered the room, lip pinned firmly beneath her teeth.  “Ready?”

He couldn’t suppress his gasp:  she was a proper _vision_ dressed in a floor-length dress the colour of sunsets he’d only ever seen on Gallifrey.  It had a high neck, and it came with a short jacket of the same colour in the same sort of crepey material.  He couldn’t see her feet, but her wrists glinted with some kind of sparkly jewelry as did her ears.  Her hair was swept back from her face but there was still hair touching her shoulders, too, like she’d grown tired after pinning some of it back and decided to keep the rest of it loose.  Yet, it had the effect of softening her features, making them glow even more.  Or perhaps that was the dress – was the dress actually making her glow?

He tilted his head a little as he made his way over to her, spreading his arms as if to demonstrate that she’d hit the nail on the head.  “You look _lovely_ ,” he said sincerely, giving her a sweeping bow that made her giggle. 

She stepped back to pay him the same respect, admiring him with an approving, if slightly shocked, expression.  “You clean up pretty good, too, Doctor.”

“This old thing?”  He couldn’t help himself from flailing out his coattails, however, and giving a slight turn should she want to admire him more.  The way friends did, anyway.  “M’lady?”  He crooked his elbow.

Her lips curved into a genuine smile as she placed her fingertips on his arm.  “Sir.”

“I’d like to say that your carriage awaits, but sadly, the distance is only a few hundred yards so I figured it might be a bit of overkill if I hired one.”

“Well – next time just park further away, and then you _will_ have to hire one,” she teased, tugging on his arm meaningfully.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They easily navigated the terrain, their gaits falling into step with each other.  There was a short queue at the check-in where a woman with green, pink and white hair checked off each pairing before sending them name tags that floated up from a basket.  Check-in went easily enough when they arrived to the front of the queue.  But then the woman blinked several times at them and asked them the question that always seemed to be on everyone’s mind.

“And…relationship?”

He faltered.  “Relationship?”

“Yes.”  The woman batted her eyes at him – or perhaps those were just her eyelashes.  “The Mortsdron Institute likes to keep track of these things.”  She waved her hand over the basket that contained various coloured pendants.   “To help facilitate social interactions.  So for example – father and daughter?  Or…”  She raised her eyebrows in a show of being impressed.  “Grandfather and granddaughter?”

The Doctor let out a loud sigh of exasperation, rubbing his forehead.  He could feel how still Clara’s fingers had become on his arm.

_Just say friends, it’s not that hard._

The woman continued, as though perhaps he were unfamiliar with possible relationship titles.  “Or – husband and wife?”

His head shot up, and his expression must have been something to behold because the woman visibly shrank from him.

 _Say friends.  You’re friends._  

“Concubine and –”

He held a hand up authoritatively.  “Stop,” he commanded.  “Just stop.  Clara is my…”  He trailed off as he turned to look at her, the word _friend_ sticking in his throat. 

He expected she would look uncomfortable, that she would break their eye contact immediately.  Instead, she held his gaze, her features placid, expectant - and possibly even a little curious. 

He turned back to the woman, his tone softer now.  “Clara isn’t my daughter or my granddaughter.  I’m over a thousand years older than her and we’re entirely different species with no possible blood relation.”  His expression turned sour.  “And I won’t even _dignify_ your assumption that she isn’t on completely and utterly equal footing with me.”

The woman licked her lips.  “Um –”

“But I can’t use the word ‘friend’ because frankly, that’s like calling a crater a hole in the ground – so then ‘best friend?’”  He frowned disdainfully.  “Now it sounds like we’re in primary school, passing each other notes in the hallways.  Or worse – _texting_.  ‘Associate’ doesn’t come close; ‘companion’ is a term I’ve often used in the past, but she does far more than accompany me to places so that’s completely inadequate.  We’re not dating and we never will be, so you can forget ‘wife,’ ‘girlfriend’ and ‘lover.’  And I won’t even entertain the notion of ‘soul mate’ as that’s reserved for gooey-eyed adolescents – or maybe just the romantic poets.  I _did_ crash that gathering of Lord Byron’s that one time...”  In one stride he was at the podium, causing the woman to lean back slightly.  “Do you have a term on there for someone who is your constant and your touchstone?  Someone who puts up with you but also constantly challenges you?  Is there a term for someone who is like gravity to you, who grounds you and centres you?  And that’s actually pretty impressive because my people invented gravity.  So I would know.”

He continued, his voice dropping to a more intimate level, fueled by an intense desire to understand that he hadn’t known he’d harboured.  “Is there a word for it when someone makes your life better just by being in it?  Or how about when you know that they’ve changed you and you actually _like_ how they’ve changed you and wouldn’t go back to the ways you used to be if given the opportunity?  Is there a word when you know that you haven’t always known her, but it feels like you have?  That you actually…can’t remember a time when she wasn’t in your life?”

The woman’s expression had softened.  “Well, I know what I would call it…”

Clara was staring straight ahead, her face betraying nothing.  He wondered if he’d gone too far.

“I suppose that last bit is because she jumped into my timestream,” he said airily.  “It’s actually little wonder that I feel like I’ve known her for a thousand years.”

The woman waited a few seconds, then cleared her throat primly. “ _Well_!”  She made a mark in the air on the holographic checklist, then rummaged in the basket and extricated two opal-like pendants that swirled and pulsed, constantly changing.  “We’ll put you down as ‘Undefined’ – does that work for you?”

“Oh.”  He glanced down at the pendant as it floated towards him, affixing itself to his lapel. “It’d be better if you called it ‘Indefinable.’” He frowned at her, irritated.  “Why didn’t you just say that was an option in the first place?”

The woman clasped her hands, her smile tight.  “It is the policy of the Mortsdron Institute to allow all pairs to name themselves, for better accuracy – and to avoid any unpleasantness.”

“Unpleasantness?”

A gentle tugging on his arm was the only thing that prevented him from questioning the woman further.  “C’mon, Doctor.”

Clara’s presence registered on his nerves with all the subtlety of a lightning bolt.  But he nodded, and let himself be led down the long corridor and into the hall.

They were both silent, but he could feel her thinking.  It made it more difficult for him to think, knowing she was thinking.  And why couldn’t _he_ think?  More specifically, why had every word in every language he’d ever known flown from his mind?  How could he possibly stop Clara from thinking about everything he’d let spill if he couldn’t remember how to form words?

Humming, he could hum.  He could hear the strains of music drifting in from the hall, some old-fashioned Earth music.  Something with a lilting tempo in three that he recognized.  He started humming along.

_Skaters at play_

_Gliding away_

_Gracefully waltzing to music gay_

“Sorry?”

“Hmm?”

“You were…singing?  Something.  About gay skaters.”  Clara sounded a bit gobsmacked.

“Oh.  Well, I was humming along to the music – they’re playing a waltz.”

“Oh.”

They finally reached the end of the corridor and stepped into the hall.  He could hear Clara’s intake of breath at the sight that greeted them.

Chandeliers floated above their heads, collections of tiny orbs that rotated lazily around each other like spiral galaxies.  Or perhaps they _were_ spiral galaxies – there clearly hadn’t been any expense spared at the affair.  Realistic-looking waitstaff droids glided through with four trays per mechanical hand, and then there were the banquet tables that stretched alongside both ends of the hall, filled with every kind of delicacy money could buy.  A small orchestra was sat in the far corner of the room, playing more of that old-fashioned Earth music he had heard in the corridor, this time a Baroque number that reminded him of that wager he had lost to Bach about whether he could compose a number you could also play upside down.  _Cheeky mathematical genius bastard._   Couples decked out in the finest evening wear twirled around one end of the hall, their swirling colours reminiscent of tropical birds.   

“So – plenty of food to try, drinks to drink, mingling to…mingle,” he began awkwardly.  What would a friend say now?  “And you should find someone to dance with.  There are plenty of eligible dance partners, I’m sure.”

“Why, what will you be doing?”

“I just need to get some information from someone, nothing exciting.  It shouldn’t take long.” 

“Well, I’ll go with you.”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”  He pushed.  “Besides, you should enjoy yourself!  Eat, drink, dance!  Leave all the boring stuff to me.” 

She made a noise of irritation.  “I’m not going to be dancing, Doctor.  Why are you so keen on this all of a sudden?”

“Why not?  You’re young, and - you should take advantage of these opportunities!  Before you grow old and your joints protest at any movement.”

He could feel her bristling next to him.  Which was far preferable to her earlier state because thoroughly annoyed Clara was much more of an actor than a thinker. 

“I need to go find this woman.”  He fished in his pocket for the description of her.  “Just avoid any drink that’s green and bubbly because it’s probably space absinthe, which is like regular absinthe but a lot stronger.  And avoid _anything_ that looks like a tea cake.”

“Why?”

“Better you don’t know.  But do try the strawberry-covered chocolates – I hear they’re excellent.  See you in a bit.”  He hurried off, congratulating himself at having navigated the entire conversation without any eye contact.  And for remembering words.  

Falenda Lendup was a petite blonde who was seated in a corner at the far end of the hall near the orchestra.  She was talking animatedly to a tall, blue woman in a red dress with long hair that covered half her face.

“Then you wouldn’t have been able to come and sit and sulk, would you?  Because why should _I_ have fun if _you’re_ miserable, right, Tabi?”

“You’re missing the point, Falenda,” the blue woman responded gloomily. 

“Um,” the Doctor started.  “Hi.”

But they either didn’t hear him over the music or were ignoring him.

“No, _you’re_ missing the point.  Did you notice where I asked us to be seated?  _Right next to the dance floor_.  Yet, here I am, sitting here.  Not dancing.”

Right.  This was why the Doctor didn’t have emotional outbursts in front of Clara.  Because now he couldn’t just return to the other end of the hall, tell her he needed her (though knowing her, the pleading out-of-depth look on his face would’ve been enough), and return confident that he could gain the information he needed because she could help him navigate the waters of social interaction. 

He tried clearing his throat.  “I need to talk to one of you, but it’s possible I’m interrupting something…” He raised his eyebrows, giving an awkward smile that came out as more of a grimace.

“Beg your pardon?” the blue woman asked curtly.

“ _Oh_!” Falenda cooed.  “Look!  My dancing partner has finally shown up!”

“Uh…” the Doctor started as she reached out and grabbed his hand to pull herself up like he had offered it.  “No, no – I really just needed to talk to you.”

“And _my my_ , he dressed for the occasion, didn’t he?” she continued, running a hand down the sleeve of his jacket.  “What’s your name, honey?”

“I’m the Doctor.”

“Well, _hello_ , Doctor, pleased to make your acquaintance!”  She shook his hand vigorously.  “I’m Falenda, and the one who’s trying to hide behind her hair is Tabi.”

“Hello,” he said uneasily.

The blue woman scowled and crossed her arms, looking away.

“We don’t need to dance, especially since it seems you two, uh…”  He trailed off, looking between the two of them uncomfortably, wishing for the hundredth time he’d never opened his mouth at the front of the queue. “Really, we just need to chat a minute.”

“ _Nonsense_!”  Falenda chimed in.  “Please – lead the way.” 

But it was she who basically dragged him out onto the dance floor, making him question whether she would let him lead or he would need to follow her.  Yet, once they arrived, she gave a graceful curtsy, and allowed him to assume proper dance position with him in the lead. 

“So I was told that you were the person to talk to about the azbantium trade.”

She made a somewhat affronted noise.  “No, no, no, no – where are your _manners_ , Doctor?  We make small talk first before diving straight into business.  Otherwise it takes all the fun out of dancing.” 

The Doctor rolled his eyes.  “I’m rubbish at small talk.  And the information I need is of the utmost importance.”

Falenda gave a very put-upon sigh.  “Well, fine, be like that.  Yes, I have connections to the azbantium trade, though I have no _direct_ connection whatsoever with the…source.”

“You mean with the Gruhflane.”

She blanched, her eyes widening fearfully.  “Keep your voice down!” she snapped.  “You don’t know who could be listening.”

“I don’t care who’s listening.  In fact, no – you know what?  I hope they _are_ listening because then they’ll know what I’m going to do.  And that saves me the trouble of a trip where I warn them not to do something and they insist they’ll keep doing it and I threaten them – and it all gets very tiresome _very_ quickly.  _So_ …the source of the azbantium is the seventh moon of Oalogtu.  But is that their only source?”

Falenda’s gaze kept darting this way and that.  Finally, she eked out a “Yes.”

“And if somehow, some way, something were to happen to the moon, and all of the azbantium-rich caves were destroyed – would that eliminate their main source of control over the rest of the galaxy?”

She gave him a saccharine smile that was ghastly in its forced sweetness.  “And lead to the collapse of their economic infrastructure and probable dismantling of their government, why yes, it would - _why in the name of all the goddesses would you ever want to do such a thing?!  Do you have any idea how dangerous that would be_?” she hissed at him from between clenched teeth.

His expression darkened.  “They hurt someone close to me.”

She looked at him like he was mad.  “They’re the Gruhflane.  That’s what they do!”

“Well, I was able to get her back, but I had to break quite a few of my own rules to do it.  And they’ve been lording it over me since then – the random threatening space telegram, the supposedly ominous phone calls, all warnings designed to scare me into doing what they want to keep her safe.  I’ve been outrunning them for some time, but I needed a more permanent solution that wouldn’t harm anyone.”

Falenda took this in.  “Even if something were to happen… _hypothetically…theoretically_ to the moon…what about the hundreds of thousands of miners?”

“You mean the indentured _slaves_?” the Doctor practically snarled.

“The ones who work the mines,” she said carefully.  “They’d be out of work.”

“Since they’d be released from their contracts, they could go off-world and find work that actually _paid_ them a livable wage.”

She gaped at him.  “You’ve certainly thought this through, Doctor.”

“Well, I’ve had some time to work it out.”

The music had changed to a waltz, and it seemed as good a time as any to end the conversation.

“Anyway, thank you for the information.”

Her look of effrontery changed to determination.  “Oh, no.  You’re not done yet.  I’m not ending on that note with you, so I hope you know how to waltz.”

The Doctor was befuddled.  “I do waltz, but –“

“Excellent.  Than you can do one more round, it’s not going to kill you.”

His protest died somewhere in his throat as his feet all of a sudden automatically changed to keep time to a lilting tune. 

“You’re very good,” he remarked after they had settled into the new rhythm.

“Thank you,” she replied graciously, though her attention was lasered over his shoulder.  “Oh, look – it’s green.”

“Sorry?”

“Tabi’s dress.”  She curled her lip in disgust.  “Clashes _horribly_ with her skin.  Even if seeing her this jealous is absolutely _delicious_ – tell me.  Who would wear a mood dress to a function that you don’t want to go to?  I’ll tell you why.  To spite me.  I veto most of her clothing choices because there are really only a handful of hues that don’t clash with her skin, but _noooo_ , she decides on a _mood dress_ and insists she’s just trying to be trendy.  Can you imagine?!  Tabi is _never_ trendy!” 

“Tabi.  She’s your…” he trailed off, remembering they all had pendants that defined their relationships.  Hers was a solid gold.  “Wife?”

“Going on thirteen years now,” she sighed.  Her eyes fell to his lapel.  “Ooh, you’re ‘Undefined,’ how intriguing!” She smiled like he had imparted a particularly juicy piece of gossip to her.  “Let me guess…mandroid?”

“No.  At least not this time.”

“Ohhh,” she said meaningfully, her attention over his shoulder again.  “A woman, then.  In a _gorgeous_ salmon number - I mean wow; that does _wonders_ for her features.  She’s absolutely stunning.”

“Yes, she…” the Doctor trailed off, frowning, craning his neck to see behind him.  “How did you know that was her?”

She smiled that secret smile again.  “Because dear, she can’t take her eyes off you.  Looks a little more _defined_ , if you ask me.”

“Ohh, that’s probably because she didn’t know I could dance.  My coordination used to be abominable, believe me.   She’s probably just shocked I haven’t tripped over my own feet yet.”

Falenda hummed.  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.  Though – well, would you look at _that_?  She’s taken matters into her own hands.”

“Hmm?”

She indicated with her head.  “Picked a young, _handsome_ man to dance with.  Well, he picked her, same difference.”

“Really?” 

At their next turn around, he searched for Clara and sure enough – she was being led out onto the floor by a young man with brown hair that flopped over his forehead and was wearing a –

The Doctor felt his jaw clench, his teeth grinding together.

And wearing a bowtie.

It was part of a tuxedo, of course, just part of the ensemble.  There were plenty of men wearing the same outfit spread all around the hall.

But it was that same kind of hair, those gangly limbs... 

And he was holding Clara. 

The Doctor heard Falenda give a small gasp.  “Is everything all right?”

He must’ve unknowingly tightened his grip on her because all of a sudden the muscles in the hand on her waist protested in agony.  “Yes.  Yes, it’s fine.”

She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him.  “Like I said, seems a little more _defined_ to me.”

“Not at all.”  He felt the muscles in his jaw relax, and a strange melancholy-tinted calm washed over him.  “That’s just her type.  With any luck, she’ll get his information, and they can go on intergalactic dates in the future.”

This smile of Falenda’s was different:  it was softer and there was genuine kindness and understanding behind it.  “I’ve been where you are, back before Tabi and I got together.  Maybe you don’t know her as well as you think you do.”

“Trust me, I do.”  And then because he needed to think about something else, he searched for Falenda’s wife.  “What does blue mean?”

“Hmm?”

“Tabi’s dress has turned blue.  Does that mean she feels more like herself now?”

Falenda looked immediately distraught.  “Blue?”  She cocked her head over his shoulder, her face falling.  “Oh no.”  She gave a distressed sigh.  “I’m just terrible, aren’t I?  Dance with someone to make her jealous and all I do is make her sad.” 

“You’ve been tremendously helpful,” he reassured her.  “Thank you for the information.”

“And?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“And…for the dance.  I…liked dancing with you,” he said haltingly. 

Falenda chuckled, linking arms with him as they made their back to the tables.  “I’m guessing your woman in salmon usually helps out in the talk-to-people department, huh?”

“Yes,” he admitted, feeling his face grow hot.  “And Clara’s not my woman, she’s just my friend.”

“Mm hmm.  I remember when I used to say that.”  She gave him a curtsy as they stopped next to the tables.  “Well - it was nice to meet you, Doctor.  Good luck with everything.”

“Thank you.  And - the same to you,” he added, feeling a jolt of pride at remembering one of the social niceties.

“Can I just leave you with a _little_ thing to ponder before you go?  Just an itty bitty morsel to chew on?”

“Um…okay.”

“You say Clara is your friend – but she agreed to the ‘undefined’ label.  What do you think that means?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.  Falenda had already scurried back to her table, anyway, and had almost prostrated herself before her wife, kneeling at her chair and clutching her hand.  He watched as Tabi’s dress slowly warmed to a rosy hue.

If only it were that simple.

He had fully intended to avoid her for as long as he could, but no such luck.  All of a sudden she materialised at his elbow.

“Hey.”

“Hello!” he turned, startled. 

“You get what you needed?”

“Yes, yes, I did.  And you?”

“Sorry?”

“Well…did you have a nice time?”

“Yeah, it was okay, I guess.”

 He couldn’t help prodding.  “It looked like you found someone to dance with, after all.”

“Well, yeah, didn’t exactly have a lot of choices seeing as I’d been sidelined.”  It was difficult to miss the punch of her words. 

“You weren’t _sidelined_ –“

“So you going to dance after all that about making your joints ache was – what?  Just getting information?” 

“Yes, it was.  And I didn’t want to dance; she _insisted_ on it.”

“Right.”

They lapsed into tense silence.  He could feel how restless she was next to him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just…didn’t wear the right shoes.  Though I suppose even closed-toe shoes wouldn’t have prevented having my feet stepped on.” 

Her brown-haired man was clumsy, too.  Yet another eye-rollingly annoying quality to endear himself to her.

“But he must have had some other qualities to make up for his lack of coordination, I’m sure.”  He knew his words sounded forced.

“Not really.  I only danced with him ‘cause he kept insisting he could teach me.  But not only was he rubbish, he was kinda arrogant about the whole thing.” 

“Ahh.”  That didn’t really sound like someone she’d want to see again.

Not that he cared, of course.  It was none of his business.

“Doctor?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we go?”  Her question was strained.

“Of course.”  When he offered her his arm, he was relieved to see that she didn’t hesitate to take it.

_Looks a little more defined to me…_

They made their way back down the corridor, their silence somewhere between awkward and tired.  He hadn’t lied to her, exactly, but he wasn’t blind enough to miss that his omission of information had created a noticeable wedge between them.

“It was about the Gruhflane,” he said suddenly.

He felt the momentary pressure of her fingertips as she tensed.  “Sorry?  What was?”

He let out a sigh.  “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew how…worried it would make you.”  He opted not to use _upset_.  “I was meeting a woman who had ties to a trade that I plan to cripple on Oalogtu.  It will destroy their empire.”

Clara was quiet a moment.  “What do you plan to do?”

“Blow up their moon.  The workers who mine the caves will be sent elsewhere where they can actually earn a living; their economic system will collapse; their government will topple, and they’ll lose all their influence.  And that includes any teeth in the threats they’ve been sending me.”

She turned to him then, eyes wide.  “They’ve been threatening you?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Oh…a while.”

“ _How long_ , Doctor?”

He didn’t want to answer, but if he was giving her the truth, he couldn’t stop now.  “Since I got you back from them.”

Her eyebrows shot up.  “ _All_ this time, they’ve been threatening you?  What?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.  “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.  Which is exactly what you’re doing.”  She started to protest, but he cut her off.  “I was going to _wait_ to tell you until I could come to you and say, ‘Clara, you will never have to worry about them _ever_ again.  I know they’re the stuff of your nightmares, but now, I can finally tell you that you’re safe.’”

“And what about you?” she asked, her voice small as she curled her fingers around his palm.  “Will you be safe?”

The question caught him off-guard, and he fumbled a moment.  His cheeky _I didn’t know you cared_ went unvoiced as he strove to keep up the honesty.  Because for some unknown reason…it seemed to be working.  “I’ll be careful.  I won’t be reckless, I promise.  And the plan I’ve come up with ensures that no one will be harmed, which I thought you would approve of.”

She looked momentarily mystified.  “You came up with a plan that you thought _I_ would approve of?”

“Of course.  Otherwise, what’s the point?”

She glanced up the corridor in the direction of the music that was still wafting in.  “So the whole reason we’re here tonight is because of me?”

“This was the final piece I needed, yes.”

“The final piece?”  Her stare was penetrating but it only sought answers. “How long have you been working on this?”

Answering this question truthfully was a bit dodgy.  Technically, it may only have been a year or two for her, but for him?  He’d lost count of the many solo trips and the unusually long stays to gain trust from the fear-ridden on his quest for information.  “A long time.” 

It was vague, but it apparently satisfied her.  “Okay.”  Her reply was so soft he might’ve asked her to repeat it – but she placed her arm in his again and led them on without another word.         

He could feel her thinking as they made their way back to the TARDIS.  His feeble attempts at small talk were met with distant replies or none at all, returning them to a silence he could only describe as unnerving.  It wasn’t as tense as earlier or as awkward as their corridor conversation – but it definitely wasn’t easy-going or in any way comfortable, either.       

Yet Clara was Clara, and that meant she would speak her mind when she was ready.  Which was apparently only once they’d left behind the fact-finding mission-disguised-as-an-evening-out.  He’d barely pulled the lever when she blurted out, “Did you mean it?”

He frowned as he adjusted a few settings.  “Did I mean what?”

“All that stuff you said before.  About what you think of me.  What I am to you.  Did you mean all of that?”

He couldn’t lie, not now.  “Yes,” he finally admitted.

She let out a shaky sigh, flexing her fingers in and out as she started to pace.  “You’ve been trying so hard…”

His stomach dropped like a stone.  “Oh.”

“No!” She turned around, eyes wide.  “I didn’t mean it like that, I meant that you…you’ve just been trying so hard and I’ve seen it.  I’ve seen you changing, Doctor, and I just wanted to…”  She was looking at him so openly, with something in her eyes that he couldn’t identify.  It was so soft, so warm, so inviting, like if she opened her eyes wide enough he’d see straight through to what was inside.

It felt like a lifetime ago since she’d looked at him like _that_.

She took two steps towards him, slow and deliberate, until she was close to him, in his space.  He froze, feeling her warmth, her nearness.  Hoping that she would close the gap and yet at the same time terrified that she would.

“I just wanted to…” she repeated, then leaned in, closing the gap between them, melting into him.  She wrapped her arms around his middle, resting her head on his chest as she gave him an actual, proper _hug_.

He stood there in shock a few moments, hands hanging uselessly at his sides.  Finally, he found his voice.  “Can I….?” he asked tentatively.

“Yes!” she replied, laughing a little into his jacket.  “Yes, of course.  Of course you can.” 

And so he slowly closed his arms around her back, enfolding her in his arms, feeling her hair tickle his cheek.  He breathed her in, feeling that bodily response happening again:  everything inside him unfolding, unfurling and relaxing, that sensation of sighing washing over him. 

“I have to say something,” she said, her hands tensing for a moment on his back.  “And I dunno if it…I just have to say it.”

“Okay.”

She was quiet for a few moments, the only sound her breathing, her heartbeat fast against his chest.  “I love you.”

And just like that, the sighing crescendoed to something else entirely, a force so powerful it almost took his breath away.  His entire body vibrated in a way he couldn’t understand, like there was music coursing through his blood vessels and nerves, his muscles, tendons and bones; everything was…. _singing_. 

“I dunno what it means, and I’m not saying that I’m – I mean, I’m not promising anything, I guess is what I’m saying –“

“It’s okay,” he managed to choke out.  “You really don’t have to say anything else.”  He just wanted to let the feeling wash over him; he wanted to get hit by wave after wave of it.  Had he ever felt this way in his life?  He wasn’t sure he had.  He didn’t know if he ever would again – if it were even _possible_ to feel like he wanted to go shake the hand of every creature in the Universe, to slap them on the back, to grin wildly at every person he’d ever known and would ever meet, to hug the next hundred people he met and put out signs that said _free ride!  Anywhere in time and space – just knock on the door and the trip is yours!_  

Clara was the windsong of his hearts…and _this_ must have been what joy felt like. 

He let himself sink into the moment, certain that he would never feel this way again.

“But I do,” she murmured.  “Doctor…I forgive you.”

And just like that, Clara proved him wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! If you’ve made it this far, CONGRATULATIONS – YOU ARE AWESOME. ) Many thanks to my beta, V, who catches all the right things and makes all the right comments. :-p

It wasn’t a question Clara heard often.  For some, it was taboo.  Completely off limits.  Never asked because it was an invasion of privacy and delved into places too uncomfortable or even too unseemly.  Yet others took the opposite path, either out of what they perceived to be compassion, borne from genuine concern, or sometimes because they were simply ravenous for information, their curiosity demanding satisfaction.  Regardless, it was a question that Clara had grown accustomed to hearing over the years when people found out she had lost her mum:  _how did you deal with it_?

And most of the time, Clara would shrug and reply truthfully:  “I kept busy.”

Like many things, it had happened out of necessity.  While her dad had done the best he could, dragging himself out of bed to ready her for school in the mornings, pulling himself off the couch and away from the telly to greet her in the evenings and, after seeming surprised that she wanted a meal and staring blankly at their more-often-than-not mostly empty refrigerator, he would weakly suggest that they have a “nice change of pace” and order takeaway.  He seemed to forget when she had things like doctor and dentist appointments, parent-teacher conferences and other school events, despite Clara’s habit of circling it in red on their family calendar. 

Clara could never blame him, though.  The calendar was filled with her mum’s loopy handwriting, with things like “Dad’s Super-Secret Surprise Birthday Party (Shhhh, Don’t Tell!!!)” and “Family Holiday Getaway Weekend!” adorned in brightly-coloured bubbles and a sea of smiley faces.  It made for a sick contrast to the endless vases upon vases of decaying flowers that cluttered their eating area table, bookshelves, entryway and even the kitchen countertops, all interspersed with somber-coloured sympathy cards.

So Clara took charge.  First, she purged.  She donned a pair of rubber gloves and emptied the vases into bins, washing them out and stowing them in the china cabinet.  She emptied out the refrigerator of its old takeaway containers, moldy meats and spoiled milk, scrubbing it down with hot, soapy water until it gleamed.  She took meticulous inventory of their pantry and cupboards, and made lists upon lists of items they needed, leaving them taped to the refrigerator for her dad.   She dumped the family calendar and bought a new one, then threw that one away and bought a planner for herself instead, opting to leave post-it’s next to her dad’s coffee mug in the morning and next to his dinner plate in the evening to help him remember appointments:  _Good morning, Dad!  Don’t forget, you have a parent-teacher conference at 17:00 today!  Have a good day!”_ She signed with goofy faces instead of smiling ones, always watching out of the corner of her eye to see if he cracked a smile.  Every once in a while, he did.

And so Clara learned how to “cope:”  she armed herself with lists, with checkboxes and post-it’s, with highlighters and multi-coloured flags; she organized, re-ordered, re-purposed, filed, and alphabetized.  She scrubbed, bleached, polished and wiped down.  When she had exhausted all the possibilities in her house, when her dad had shooed her away from organizing his toolbox, she turned to her friends.  But it wasn’t for comfort – it was for more projects, more ways to keep busy.  She made copies of her notes and highlighted the different sections she thought would be important to their tests.  She made to-do lists and step-by-step guides for completing papers and exams.  By the time her dad received a phone call from a very confused parent who had found her son’s notebook with a “How to Write a Character Piece on Brutus” step-by-step guide in Clara’s handwriting, she was so far-gone that when he asked, _What are you doing, Clara?  Is this because of Mum?_ she could only reply with _What?_

“What?”

“I asked what you were doing.”

It had been well over a decade since her father asked her the same question, but the panic that started to creep up her throat followed the same path.

“I’m cleaning.”

The Doctor squinted, eyeing the rag in her hand and the little wooden TARDIS that had, until about ten seconds ago, been receiving a thoroughly proper dusting.  “Yes…” he started, the wheels in his head visibly turning.  “I suppose what I meant then is…why?”

She was stalling, doing her best to act nonchalant, like this was just something the Doctor had failed to notice.  “Why am I cleaning?” 

Because this time, she _knew_ the reason for her presence in the Doctor’s room of keepsakes, empty bottles of cleaning products strewn around her like fallen soldiers.  She _knew_ why she had attacked her flat with renewed vigor several months ago, reorganised her pantry, rearranged her bookshelves, and wiped out the kitchen cabinets.  She _knew_ why she had then turned to the veritable treasure trove of projects in the form of the endless rooms in the TARDIS when her flat had exhausted her.

The Doctor was going to catch on if she kept this up.  “Didn’t I just ask that?”

“Right.  Well…actually…”

She should just tell him.  It was all his fault anyway.  If he hadn’t opened his big, stupid mouth the night of the Mortsdron fundraiser…

 _“Doctor…I forgive you.”_   

_Clara heard him make some sort of sound at the back of his throat.  Then, she felt his fingertips at the edges of her hair.  “Can I….?”_

_“Yes!” she replied again, her hand going to the nape of his neck, which she stroked lightly.  “You don’t have to ask anymore, Doctor.  I trust you.”_

_His hand found the back of her head, his caresses light and reverent, something like a whimper escaping from him.  Then, his hands stole to the front of her face, leaning back to look at her, eyes shining with emotion and unshed tears.  One of them trembled and fell down his cheek as he gazed at her.  “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw._

_Such an uncharacteristic display of emotion left Clara with little voice to reply, so she just nodded, her smile warm and watery bright._

_He leaned in, then, hands still anchored around her head – and pressed a lingering and soft kiss to the centre of her forehead.  She closed her eyes, breath catching at the intimate familiarity of the gesture.  The emotions swirled inside of her, and she launched herself at him again, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek before burying her head in the crook of his neck.  This time there was no hesitation in his response, and his arms went around her, hugging her tightly to him.  His hand found the back of her head again, his grip gentle but firm, gathering her in completely to him.  She nuzzled his cheek, his neck, overcome by a strange giddiness, making her lean back, cup his face –_

_And freeze, two realisations hitting her simultaneously._

_First – the source of her restlessness, the reason she had been on-edge for most of the evening.  It wasn’t because of the Doctor’s uncharacteristic impassioned display at the front of the queue, crossing over their “friends” territory into something a lot less clear-cut and defined.  It wasn’t because he had gone off on his own and sidelined her, something he hadn’t done in ages.  It wasn’t because he had danced with that woman after making a stink about his old joints, misleading her into thinking dancing was a thing of his past_

_As she looked into his face, his words from earlier came back to her – just not the ones she expected._

_“We’re not dating and we never will be – so you can forget wife, girlfriend and lover.”_

_NEVER..._

_The Doctor didn’t use “never” very often.  Never was different when it came from his lips:  it was definitive.  When someone had seen the beginning and end of time, “never” took on new meaning – a real meaning.  Never was something that, unlike almost every other being in the entire universe, the Doctor could truly mean._

_Which wouldn’t have been a problem._

_Except that her second realisation was how desperately she wanted to kiss him._

_She was momentarily thrown, jarred by the contrary nature of these revelations._

_“Clara?”_

_Juddered back to reality, she gave him a brave smile, leaning up on her tiptoes to place a chaste kiss on his forehead.  But her whole body was betraying her, thumbs itching to trace the outline of his lips, fingers straying dangerously close to his curls.  She needed an out and FAST._

_So she grimaced, shifting from one foot to the other, letting out a noise of discomfort._

_The Doctor was quick.  “Ohh, that’s right, you said your feet hurt.”  He dropped his hands, looking a touch embarrassed.  “You probably want to get out of those clothes, out of those shoes.”_

_What was happening to her?  Why did her mouth want to turn up in a smirk, her eyes want to take on a hooded gaze, her hips want to swivel?  She had to mash her lips together to prevent them from forming a sultry pout._

_“Yeah, the shoes definitely, so I’m just gonna…”  She gave him a rueful smile, beating a hasty retreat._

It was the emotion of the evening, she rationalised.  It was watching him dance.  Hell, it was the damn suit. 

Unfortunately, that theory went out the window when he showed up the next week in a hoodie and a pair of plaid trousers.  The smile she gave him was even more ridiculous than his outfit – which was no small feat.  What really took the biscuit, though, was her desire to unzip that hoodie and snuggle into him or yank him down into a snogfest.

And then…she seemed to have forgotten the notion of “personal space” with him.

If anyone had asked her, she would have pled guilty by reason of insanity – or, at the very least, a temporary departure from her senses.  It was like she couldn’t stop herself:  he would be reading something and she would come up behind him, throw her arms around his neck, and nuzzle his shoulder before even bothering to ask what he was reading.  The Doctor didn’t seem to notice, or, in an unintentionally maddening move, would shift so she could get a better view.  She didn’t just take his arm now – she would hug it, rubbing it with both hands and laying her head on it even though she couldn’t reach his shoulder.  She would sometimes take his hand with both of hers, fingers constantly caressing the back of his, like she was determined to give him a bloody hand massage.  And as for the hugging…

Clara reinstated every form of hug from before he’d changed – with a few choice additions.  There were the pick-up/drop-off hugs.  The I’m-so-glad-you’re-okay/not-dead/I-was-worried hugs.  The this-is-so-brilliant-I-just-have-to-hug-you hugs.  But there were also the you-said-something-sweet hugs, the I-had-a-rough-day hugs, and the I-don’t-need-a-reason-‘cause-I-just-felt-like-hugging-you hugs.  Sometimes the Doctor seemed surprised by them, but he always smiled and returned the hug unquestioningly.  He probably just assumed she wanted to make up for lost time. 

But the tipping point came when they visited the planet of Ventragona to watch the hundred-year Dance of the Winds – and Clara purposely left her jacket inside.  She reasoned it wasn’t bitterly cold outside so it wouldn’t seem entirely reckless.  And she put her odds at 50/50 of being able to appear chilled enough that she “needed” the Doctor’s hoodie, a practice she had nearly perfected as of late. 

She needn’t have worried. 

The Dance of the Winds wasn’t a spectator event, but apparently one meant to _feel_ the varying levels of torque given off by their interaction.  Or, put another way, the wind was so strong that she understood why the audience had to strap themselves into their stadium seats and why the Doctor had fussed over her buckle so much that he had given it an extra zap from the sonic.  When the Doctor shouted “Where’s your jacket?” over the howling and screeching, she wasn’t lying when she sheepishly replied, “I didn’t think I’d need it.”  His questioning look was enough to colour her cheeks in embarrassment – but when she felt the now-familiar softness settling around her shoulders when the Winds were on the other side of the stadium, it filled her with guilt.  It didn’t help any that she had a front row seat to his shivering, his wraith-thin form pathetically pronounced in a thin T-shirt.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” she’d asked her reflection later after he’d dropped her off.  “You need to _stop_ ,” she commanded, finger pointed with a level of menace she usually reserved for fart noises and other classroom disruptions.  “You’re not a bloody teenager.  Control your hormones and pull it _together_.”

It might’ve worked, too.  She cut off their next pick-up hug by at least a few seconds, determined to corral every one of her recent personal space-invasion tendencies.  She even kept her comments less personal, casually remarking on his new velvet jacket and not thinking at all about how soft the velvet was to the touch or how very stroke-able it was.

And then the Doctor ruined everything. 

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Oh?”

He scooped something up, holding it awkwardly to his chest.  “I, uh, wanted to give you this.”  And then he thrust his hoodie at her.

Clara blinked.  “What?”

“Oh, come on,” he chastised gently.  “You think I haven’t noticed?  You’re not the forgetful type, Clara – far from it.  But all those times you’ve ‘forgotten’ your jacket?”

Her heart kicked up a notch at his knowing look.  

“Why didn’t you just say you liked it?  I would’ve given it to you ages ago.”

Clara let out a relieved laugh, shaking her head.  “No, no.  I can’t just _take_ your hoodie.”

“Of course you can!  And you’re not _taking_ it – I’m giving it to you.”  He held it out again, and Clara’s senses kicked into overdrive, already anticipating the soft feel of it, the oversized yet snuggly fit –

“And it’s freshly laundered, don’t worry.  All clean and ready to wear.”

She deflated.  “Oh.”  There was a valiant attempt at a grateful smile.  “That’s really…you didn’t have to do that.”

“Trust me, I did.  You remember how foul those gasses were before we fixed the geysers in Chokalomme National Park?  It was the least I could do.”  He gave her a lopsided grin. 

“Well, that was…very thoughtful,” was all she could come up with, trying not to sound disappointed. 

 _Why_ was she disappointed? 

She tried to parse it out as she leant against her closed bedroom door, having hastily excused herself to go put said gift away, leaving a very befuddled Doctor who had probably expected at least a _thank you_ hug.  She should be grateful, not disappointed!  It was sweet and thoughtful, and he’d changed _so much_ , noticing these little things about her.  She gathered the hoodie up to her face to take a greedy gulp of its scent before it hit her – it was clean.  It wouldn’t smell like him.  As comfortable and snuggly as it was, why would she want to wear it when it didn’t smell like him? 

Oh.  OH.

“Oh no,” she breathed, hand flying to her mouth. 

She, Clara Oswald, had fallen desperately –

“No, no.”

 - utterly, _stupidly_ –

“God, NO.”

\- in love with him.

“ _No_!  No, no, no, no, NO.”

She clutched the hoodie to her chest whilst she paced, like it could prevent the exposure of her foolish heart.  How long had it been going on?  Was it just because he’d said they would _never_ date?  Did she just want what she couldn’t have?

But no – her feelings had started before that night at the fundraiser, had probably been building for some time.  All the changes he’d made, how hard he had tried to get it _right_ with her, to make amends, to earn her trust again –

And he had – oh, he had.  Not only did she trust him implicitly now, but a large part of that trust had grown from her ironclad certainty that he would never even _dare_ to cross that line with her again.  He had honed his behaviour into _exactly_ what she had wanted.

Except now she wanted more.

No…she wanted it _all_.

Which was why that first night had her unceremoniously flopped onto her bed, arm thrown across her forehead like a Victorian heroine in a swoon.  Even questioning or _hinting_ was tantamount to pronouncing herself the biggest hypocrite in the history of the Universe:  a woman who doesn’t know what she wants and only seems to want what she can’t have.  She couldn’t - _wouldn’t_ do that to him, jerking his strings like a puppetmaster.  She’d sock herself in the face _for_ him first. 

So she resolved to bury her feelings instead, distract herself as much as possible.  And it had worked.

Until now.

The Doctor was still looking at her expectantly, his expression changing to one of concern, eyes flitting over his keepsakes from time to time as if they might offer an explanation in lieu of her stammering. 

“Actually,” she repeated again, mind racing for something plausible.  “I uh, was planning on surprising you.”  There.  That sounded somewhat believable and explained her cat-caught-with-the-canary behaviour. 

“Surprising me?”

“Yeah.  I just thought it’d be nice the next time you walked in here and all of your keepsakes –“ she swept both arms around her, emphasizing the enormity of her planned gesture.  “-were dust-free.”  She paused.  “ _Surprise_!” she awkwardly sing-songed.

“Ahh.”  His eyebrows lifted, and he had his _I’m-not-sure-how-to-say-this-next-bit_ face on.  “Well, that’s – that’s – very, ah – that’s lovely,” he sputtered, “but I’m afraid you’ve been had.”

“Sorry?”

“We’re in the time vortex, Clara, in another dimension in here – there’s no dust.  And even if we were to stay in one place long enough to accumulate any, the TARDIS would take care of it.  She can change the architecture of herself, eliminate walls, even delete entire _rooms_ – do you think she’d really allow her insides to get _dusty_?”

Clara’s rag moved of its own volition over the little wooden TARDIS in absent-minded strokes.  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“How long have you been cleaning in here?” he asked, gaze straying to her runaway rag.

Feeling caught again, she abruptly stopped, setting the little wooden TARDIS back on its shelf.  Though she couldn’t help herself from giving the shelf one final swipe.  “Oh, just a few – “ _weeks_ – “days.”  She shrugged, like no harm was done.

“Well, glad you haven’t wasted too much of your time, then.”  The Doctor shot a cross look at the ceiling.  “And I thought you were being _nice_ to her now, that you two were getting on?”  He frowned as there was a faint whirring overhead.  “What do you mean, you’re ‘helping her,’ what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Helping me what?”  Clara interjected quickly, hands on her hips in her nanny-turned-teacher stance, noise pointed at the ceiling.  “Helping me learn a lesson?  Is that it?  Well, you can _stop_ helping – I’ve learnt it, thank you.” 

The Doctor bit his nail, all awkward fidgeting in his embarrassment for her.  “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Clara assured him breezily.  “And I dunno – it was nice to have something to do.”

“You’re looking for something to _do_?”

“Not like – the game rooms or the gardens or pools or y’know, things that are just fun, but also – upkeep.”

“Upkeep?”

“Yeah.”  The words started to flow easily as she discovered that what she was saying was actually the truth.  “I mean – I spend so much time here that I wanted to do my part.  This is my home, too – I wanted to help keep it up, and if that means dusting or cleaning or – organising, then…”  She trailed off at the Doctor’s expression.

“You think of this as your home?” he asked softly.

 _I think of you as my home_ almost tumbled from her lips.  “Well, yeah.  How could I not?”

Something unreadable passed over his face, and he turned quickly from her.  “Well.  If you’re looking for upkeep duties, you could always learn about repairs.  That’s something that will _always_ need doing, and I’m working on the stabilisers right now, so – would you like me to…teach you?”

A hearty smile bloomed on her face at the prospect of the _endless_ hours she could spend with him, working in tandem to keep his _and_ her home in good working order.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’d really like that.”

He matched her smile, ushering her out with an enthusiastic wave of his hand.  “Actually, it’s really not as complicated as it looks.  Once you’ve got the basics down, everything starts to fall into place.” 

What felt like days later but was probably only an hour later, Clara was at her wits’ end.  Turned out the _basics_ involved a _basic_ understanding of transdimensional spaces, Euclidean geometry and something else she couldn’t even remember the name for or even say properly.  The Doctor had tried to explain as best he could, but honestly, he was an absolute _rubbish_ teacher.  He was utterly incapable of breaking concepts and theories down into smaller, easily digestable bits, and when she tried to ask questions to interrupt his tangents, he would frown and assure her he was getting there.  Not that she should have been entirely surprised – she knew him well enough to know how that mind worked.

And honestly, it had mostly just been an excuse to be near him.

But that had been part of the problem.  When she needed to be focused on what he was saying about the difference between fully sentient, partially sentient and half-sentient wires, she was too preoccupied with the way his fingers danced along said wires, summoning the memory of the feel of those dancing fingers along her –

_Stop.  This isn’t helping._

And so her lesson had ended with a retreat to her favourite console room chair, gracelessly collapsing in a resigned heap, masking one frustration with another.  Head thrown back, she let her eyes glaze over as she gazed at the time rotor, the Gallifreyan symbols circling in opposite directions. 

“What does the Gallifreyan say?” she called out on a whim. 

“What?” the Doctor called back from below.

“The Gallifreyan symbols on the time rotor.  What does it say?”

There was a sound of rummaging.  “It’s the names of my companions.”

“Really?”  She sat a little straighter, eyes straining to somehow identify the circles that constituted her name.  “Is my name on there?”

“No, uh…my _prior_ companions.”

 “Oh.”  She slumped back into the chair, feet swaying a bit restlessly.

“And I also added a bit about the Levantrian.”

_Levantrian._

A flicker of recognition sparked in her brain.  “The Levantrian - what’s that?”

“Just a weather phenomenon sometimes found on Gallifrey.” 

She could feel the thickening of the silence that followed.  “I put it there as a reminder.”  And the next bit she almost didn’t catch.  “’Remember the Levantrian.’”

Was it something from the Time War?  She didn’t want to push, but her curiosity was piqued.  “Would I know that word?  Have you ever – talked about it before?”

The silence that followed was twice as thick, its weight nearly tangible.  “No,” he finally replied.  “I don’t think so.”

And that was all she needed to propel her out of her seat and down the corridor, headed straight for the library, purpose driving her every step. 

The Doctor had _lied_ about something.  And though that was enough of an event in and of itself – he had lied about…a _weather phenomenon_? 

She was going to find out what the Levantrian was. 

She was going to find out what he was hiding from her.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL. 2 years and almost 4 months later, I have FINALLY completed this story! So many thanks to everyone who sent me those messages, reviews, sometimes multiple times that let me know that they still wanted to know how this story ended. THANK YOU. It helped me to know that people were still reading it and ultimately helped me finish it. Originally conceived before we had even SEEN Twelve as a sequel to Hold Onto Me, this story was supposed to end about 6 chapters and 2 years ago. So really, if you have stuck with me this long – thank you SO much. A huge shout-out to my incomparable beta, V/FBS/Castiolar, who will always unapologetically rock. And without further ado…I give you THE FINAL CHAPTER! : )

Clara stared at the door. The door stared back.

She steeled herself with a breath, fingers twitching at her side. A stand-off with a door, reminiscent of the Old American West. She half-expected a tumbleweed to roll down the empty corridor.

She could do this. She’d faced doors that concealed unimaginable danger, doors that hid the grotesque and the terrifying, doors that stood as the flimsy barrier between her and oblivion. How many times had a door been the only thing between her and a silent, screaming death in the deep void of space?

She could keep her cool, too. Heaven knew how much her students had tested her, or well-meaning parents had tested her. Hell, even how much _he_ had tested her. In the face of the infuriating, after it seemed every last bit of compassion and kindness was wrung from her, she could stand steady, a port in the storm.

So this door? Easy.

Letting out a forceful exhalation, she turned the handle and swung the door open –

-to find another broom and mop standing mockingly in a corner, an empty bucket overturned on its side.

“Seriously?!” she exclaimed, slamming the door shut, the sound reverberating throughout the deserted corridor. “That’s the fifth broom cupboard – you couldn’t even find something a bit more creative to block me with?!” She dug in her bag, extricating the translator and brandished it at the open air. “Look – this is _just_ to translate something! I had to go get it because I’ve looked and there aren’t any mentions of the Levantrian in any of the books I can read, which means that I have to look in the ones from Gallifrey.” She turned, as if making sure she addressed every inch of air, her words picking up speed. “But I can’t _read_ Gallfreyan so I have to learn it first! But I can’t do that unless I have a source that has words that I already know that will show me what they are in Gallifreyan – look!” She waved a paper frantically, the one she had carefully copied down every bit of the previous Doctor’s message to her, leaving space for the Gallifreyan text. “It’s _just_ a project! So can you please stop it with the diversion tactics and _let me find the bloody library?!_ ”

Honestly, she shouldn’t have expected any different. The Doctor was nowhere to be found when she’d first walked in that evening, already buried underneath a highly impressive tangle of wires. He’d managed to half-extricate himself to have what passed for an abrupt conversation with her, punctuated by terms like _filbergrands_ and _bloody stabilisers_ and _stroppy fit_. And, at the end, it was punctuated by sparks followed by a series of curses that she guessed were in several different alien languages. The TARDIS had probably translated each of them for her with glee.

She gave a sigh, drawing on those reserves of patience she saved for her most disruptive students, falling back on the words of her well-meaning boss: _remember that all behaviour is a form of communication_. “Look…I get that you’re probably just trying to protect him.” _Or you’re just taking out whatever tiff you have with him on me. Again._ “But I’m trying to protect him, too – we’re on the same side! And once I find out what the Levantrian is, I can…move on. Okay?”

A pause hung in the air, a sign that the TARDIS might just be listening, Clara’s request under consideration. Then – a release, almost like a rush or a change in pressure, a long sigh blowing out as she grudgingly capitulated. The library was at the end of the next corridor.

“Thank you!” Clara whispered fervently as she stepped into the dizzyingly endless array of books and other story collection instruments that lined the walls and ceilings. She headed straight for the Gallfireyan section, breezing past the encyclopaedic bottles, the jars of children’s stories, and the strange funnels which apparently contained political and philosophical treatises.

“Honestly, would a photo or even a picture be that difficult?” she murmured absently, fingers brushing over the spines as though she could divine where the meteorology books were hiding.

Or…perhaps she could. With a little help.

Right. From the ship who had just steered her into five broom cupboards.

“Soooo,” she started, affecting what she hoped was a beguiling head tilt, “Any chance you could at least point me in the direction of the meteorology section? Would make the work go a lot faster. And then I wouldn’t be wandering about where you don’t like me.”

Silence.

Clara’s pleading smile came out as more of a grimace. “Please?”

More silence. Not even the whir of an engine.

Her shoulders slumped, dropping the obsequious act. “Or not.” It didn’t need to be a meteorology book, after all. It was just that her intrigue surrounding the Levantrian had climbed to near-bursting levels. Shortcuts around the tedious translation and language-learning process were welcome at this point.

Well. She _had_ wanted a project.

Letting out a healthy sigh, she’d just landed on a random choice when a thud rang out through the stacks off to her left. Judging from the heft of it, it wasn’t an ABC’s book. The cover was nondescript, but that was hardly surprising given the dearth of anything adorning the other covers.

“Thanks,” she said sincerely. “Even if you were just trying to chuck me on the shoulder and missed.”

She made her way back to the plush sofa, settling in and withdrawing the translator from her bag. She didn’t exactly expect anything to jump out at her when she opened the book and tried to make sense of those graceful curlicues, circles and whorls – it had been at least a year since she’d even so much as glanced at any Gallifreyan. A cursory examination didn’t reveal much, not even that pop-up translation screen she’d accidentally activated that first time so long ago. Ten minutes later, she wasn’t sure how she’d found it in the first place: there were no familiar shapes to indicate play, stop, and record, much less translate. All of the buttons were covered in foreign symbols, with no obvious lever to press. Her finger hovered over each in turn, huffing when nothing happened. Perhaps if she pressed the one she knew, other options would appear? There was only one way to find out.

The sound of the Doctor’s former gravelly baritone filled the silence, and she leaned back into the cushions, tucking her knees up. One of the buttons was flickering now, and she pressed it. A holographic screen appeared, and the words from the message started streaming across in English. But how to turn them into the proper Gallifreyan? The tornado-looking one sped things up; the four crooked diagonal lines slowed it down; the half-octopus skipped five seconds ahead. There was probably a function for the angry lightning bolt, but she didn’t want to accidentally delete anything.

She let out a sigh, resting her head on the cushion and closing her eyes as she tried to form a new plan. Maybe she could jog her memory if she just listened...

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but we’re sorted.”

Clara’s eyes flew open, and she fumbled for the off button, her cheeks burning. “Oh! Right.” How long had he been standing there? “Well, that didn’t take long then, did it?” She forced a smile.

There was a wretched split second of hurt and thinly veiled accusation, but then his features went blank and he shook his head. “No. Turned out it wasn’t the filbergrands after all. Made for a much easier fix.”

She faked an enthusiastic nod. “Good. That’s good.”

He was restless, weight shifting absently as his feet probably itched to flee the awkward situation he’d stumbled into. “So if you wanted to go somewhere, we uh…we can, but if you’re - busy –“

“No! No, no, I’m not, I was just – trying to read. Trying to translate, actually.” She fingered the page of the book in her lap, her mind racing for an explanation.

He took in her set-up – the open book, the piece of paper, and the translator, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Translate…what? The message?”

“No, not the message. I was just using it to help me translate this book.”

His look of perplexity deepened. “You’re trying to translate a book? In…Gallifreyan.”

“Yeah. I was trying to look up about certain…meteorological events.”

“I see.” His expression said otherwise. “Is there a reason you didn’t just – ask me?”

“Well, um…I didn’t want to bother you with it ‘cause…” She fought for something believable, a plausible explanation, another reason to stall. And gave up. “I didn’t want to bother you with it ‘cause I asked you about it before, and it didn’t seem like you wanted to talk about it.”

This time it was his answer that sounded a bit forced. “Maybe it was because I hoped you would ask about something less boring than Gallifreyan meteorology.”

She couldn’t help the way her lips quirked at that.

“Seriously! Out of all the possible things you could ask about Gallifrey, why on Earth would you want to know about the weather?!”

“Because you have something about it on the time rotor.”

He looked absolutely gobsmacked.

She fiddled with the pages again. “All your companions’ names…except mine. You have something about the Levantrian instead.”

“Yes, but I also have an old nursery rhyme that’s an anagram for the names of all my favourite restaurants, and the names of places that sell dodgy spare parts so I remember not to go back there. Except Calibris.”

“Doctor –“

“Sometimes I keep my grocery lists up there when I can’t be bothered to write them down.”

She leveled him with a gaze that meant business. “Seriously. Is the Levantrian something from the Time War?”

All of his mirth dissolved instantly. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

He tried to shake her off. “It’s really not that important.”

“Is it less important than your grocery lists?”

He seemed primed for another snappy comeback – but must have noted her determination as all the fight went out of him. “All right.” He gave a little resigned shrug as he joined her on the sofa. Given the easy closeness they’d recently shared, the abnormally wide berth he gave her tugged at her heart. “There were these – endless plains of red grass outside the citadel – they must have spanned hundreds and hundreds of miles. And every thousand years or so, there was this wind of unknown origin that blew through the fields, creating a –“

“A vibration,” finished Clara. “The wind song.”

_You were the wind song of my hearts, Clara._

With the translator between them, she could almost hear the ghostly echo of his former self.

He must have felt it, too, a strain in his reply. “Yes.”

“But I know about the Levantrian, remember?” She held up the translator as evidence. “When I asked you whether I’d heard of it –“

“I lied.” The space underneath his clasped fingers became extremely interesting. “And I’m sorry. For lying. But I suppose I – didn’t want to dredge up the past.” His gaze flicked briefly to the translator.

“Then why would you need to remember it?”

Surprisingly, his answer was quick. “As a reminder. To appreciate what I have now.” He finally locked eyes with her, and she was the one who had to look away.

She stared hard enough at the indecipherable symbols that it burned. “Yeah,” she finally said. “Makes sense.”

And it did, of course. His message to her and everything it meant was truly a thing of the past – which was probably why he’d looked so hurt that she was dredging it up again. “Makes perfect sense,” she added.

She could accept it. She could move on, like he had done.

Didn’t mean she had to like it.

Still, she forced another smile on her face, this time filled to the brim with the easy camaraderie they shared.

He returned it, some of the tension draining from his posture. “So, do you still want to learn about Gallifreyan weather?”

She chuckled, ready to reply in the negative – when another idea hit her. “Actually – yeah. I do.”

He blinked at her. “That was a joke, Clara.”

“I know, but…”

_But it gives me an excuse to spend more time with you_.

“But if I learned Gallifreyan, there’d be another person in the Universe you could speak your language with. Wouldn’t that be…I dunno - nice?”

The Doctor went completely still. “Nice isn’t the first word that comes to mind,” he replied, his tone softened.

“Well, yeah, also ‘cause it’s possible I just want to learn all the curse words.”

He snickered, picking up the translator. “I doubt you’ll find too many of those when they’re discussing high and low pressure systems.” He fixed her with an unreadable look. “It might take us a while to get there.”

An image rose unbidden of the hours and hours she would be spending with him, listening to that voice. Maybe he’d even allow her to snuggle into him, her head on his chest, the twin heartbeats an accompaniment to his low, sonorous brogue…

Right. ‘Cause _that_ would help her move on.

God, she was a glutton for punishment.

“Good thing we’ve got a time machine, then.”

“And not just that…” The tech responded to his deft touch, to his long fingers gliding from button to button. “I’d forgotten the model I picked out for you.” He raised his eyebrows, blowing air through his teeth. “This has a rather impressive capacity.”

“It’s got a lot of memory?”

“’A lot’ doesn’t begin to describe it – they adapted from Time Lord technology.” He jerked his head at the stacks. “You could read every book aloud in this library and you still wouldn’t even scratch the surface. Huh.” The Doctor was eyeing the book almost warily. “Did you pick this?” he finally asked.

“No, I had…’help.’”

“Ah.” He nodded once, gingerly turning the first few pages.

“Let me guess: not a meteorology book?”

“No.” He shifted so she could see it, as if that would confirm he was telling the truth. “Though I suppose she might have figured it would help with the words of the message instead.”

There was something off about the way he was holding it, though, like the pages were sandpapery and the words were in a dialect he didn’t understand.

When he didn’t start, she prodded him with “So…what is it?”

“It’s a Western,” he said. “One of the stories penned by an author from the lowlands – very different writing and sentiment than what the Time Lords produced. They probably would have considered this sensational sentimentalist rubbish.”

The literature lover in her propelled her to lean forward in excited anticipation. “You mean it’s a good story?”

The Doctor’s expression was all wrong: where she might have expected some kind of disdain or even barely concealed distaste, it was instead carefully blank. “Yes. It makes for a good story, I suppose.”

She frowned. “What do you mean ‘makes for?’”

He ignored her question, setting the translator between them. “It’s set to English; I can show you how to take the recording and default it to the original text later.”

“Okay.”

Now he definitely looked like he was steeling himself, and Clara tried not to squirm in the ensuing silence.

Why all the stalling? Was he having second thoughts? Was there something contained in that book that was making him think? Giving her real intentions away?

Unable to take it any longer, she cleared her throat lightly. “Do you want me to pick another one or -?”

“It’s fine,” he cut in. “It’s fine,” he repeated, almost to himself. “It uh – it starts with a prologue apparently.” Then he took a long, deep breath and started speaking in that long-lost musical language.

_What else could he do?_

_After all this time, what more did she need?_

_When he looked at her, he could see galaxies reflected in her eyes – the stars swirling in a never-ending dance around each other, millions upon millions of tiny points of light. There were supernovas in her smile, stars bowing down in their capitulation and dying to the brilliance of it. When he looked at her, he could see the endless stretch of Time; and he wondered how she could possibly have written herself into his future without asking him first (and even more, he wondered why he didn’t mind.) He could also see Time freeze and grind to a halt, the paradoxes of No Time and All of Time contained in the breath that left her lungs. When he looked at her, he could see the Beginning and the End of all things, his Oneness made whole at last._

_But when she looked at him, all she could see was the love she had lost, the man he wasn’t._

_And he wondered…_

_Would she ever truly know him?_

_Would she ever SEE him?_

Heart hammering, air squeezed out of her lungs, a breathless “stop” tumbled from her mouth.

Her mind raced, struggling to catch up to the rate of her heartbeat. “Is that what you think?” she finally asked, eyes glued to the screen _where would she ever SEE him?_ flashed at her like a beacon of hope.

He was silent for just a beat too long. “It’s not what I think – I’m just reading the story.”

“No, but – really?”

From the way his lips were pressed together, it seemed like he wasn’t even going to acknowledge her question, let alone tear his eyes from the page. “Of course it isn’t. It’s just a story, Clara.”

And, quite suddenly, she saw him.

His declaration at that fundraiser that they weren’t dating and never would be, that “wife, girlfriend and lover” would never apply…

His careful efforts to cede control to her of how much personal space they shared, never once initiating something that could be mistaken as “intimate” (no matter how much she might’ve yearned for it of late)…

His reluctance to tell her about the Levantrian, revealing that he needed a reminder to appreciate what he had. Or, put another way – appreciate what they had…

And his reaction to the book. All that was missing was a hearty protest that no, the TARDIS hadn’t picked this book for a reason, hadn’t known how each of these words would prick at his hearts, drawing fresh blood from old wounds.

Though in all honesty, she had never been more grateful for the infernal machine.

“It’s a romance, right?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Yes.”

She shifted closer. “So – normal romance stuff.”

His head turned a quarter of the way towards her. “I assume so. I haven’t read it before.”

She laid her arm across the back of the couch and leaned her head on it. “So then – how do you say ‘kiss me’ in Gallifreyan?”

That earned her a half turn. “Well, we’re – we’re getting to that part, probably.”

“Yeah, but – how do you say it?”

At first, she was afraid he wouldn’t answer. But he finally mumbled something that lasted a few syllables.

She slid her arm further along the back of the couch towards him, scooting her body with it. “Sorry – didn’t quite catch that.”

Another beat. He repeated it with a touch more volume, his head halfway turned to her, cheeks noticeably tinted pink.

She shook her head, creeping further towards him until there was only about six inches of space between them. “Yeah – one more time?” She leaned in like she needed to study how his lips formed the words.

He blew a long sigh out through his nose. And then, possibly out of sheer annoyance at her, he turned his head, looked her in the eye and repeated the words like one would to a child, elongating the syllables until they were almost incomprehensible.

Not that any of that mattered, of course.

“Okay, okay,” she said in mock irritation. “I get it.” She let a hand bravely stray to his cheek, turning his face towards her. “Besides, you really only had to ask the once,” she teased, before closing the distance between them and pressing her lips to his.

He stiffened – probably from shock. It was a rather chaste kiss, but there was a slight indentation in his forehead when they broke apart. “Clara,” he started to protest.

She placed a finger just shy of his lips. “Before you say anything, just one question. You remembered the bit about the Levantrian – but do you still remember everything else you said in that message? Specifically,” she continued, pressing a finger into his mouth when he tried to answer, “picturing me and you in every room of the TARDIS?”

His eyebrows went up before pulling low as he frowned at her finger. She removed it, laying it against his cheek. “That’s two questions.”

She let the finger trail lazily along his jaw, a challenge in her eyes. “And?”

“Yes,” he admitted haltingly.

She started tracing the shell of his ear, noting with a thrill how he tried to suppress a shiver. “And the translator…” She placed a soft kiss on his jaw. “It doesn’t just record words, right? It can record things that aren’t words. Like…sounds?” She found the spot at the juncture of his jaw and kissed there, grazing the tip of his earlobe with her lips.

He made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yes. It’s a recorder, so it can record any…sounds.”

“Mmm.” Her lips moved lower to his neck. “And top shelf model, right? Almost endless memory? So does that mean it can record, I dunno…hours?”

His eyes had fluttered shut. “Yes. Hours. Easily.”

She unbuttoned the top collar of his shirt, her lips following. “Days?”

He hissed as she kissed the patch of skin exposed there. “Days, yes.”

She slid a hand down his stomach, anchoring around his waist so she could pull herself flush against his side. Meanwhile, her fingers had dipped inside his collar, finding their way to the back of his neck, teasing it. “Weeks?”

His mouth had dropped open by then, making his chuckle more audible. “I suppose it could take weeks.”

Her hand trailed to the front of his face, cupping his cheek. “What about years?” she asked softly.

That was enough to surprise his eyes open, a watery film appearing over them as he stared at her in wonder. “You’d need to break it up a bit – into multiple segments,” he replied, his voice coming from somewhere deep in his throat.

“Well, yeah, there’d be pauses. Breaks here and there for the essentials.” She found his hand, and interlaced her fingers through his, squeezing. “How many years do you think it could take?”

His attention fell to their joined hands, his thumb rubbing tiny circles on the back. Grasping her hand in both of his, he brought it slowly to his lips, placing a tender kiss on her palm, before pulling it down towards his chest. He reached for her other hand, then, fingers clasped around each wrist as he pulled her purposefully towards him, crossing her hands behind his neck so they were nose to nose. He kissed that first, trembling fingers stroking down her cheeks, anchoring behind her head and scrunching ever so slightly in her hair. Then, he leaned in and kissed her full on the lips.

The Beginning and End of all things, Oneness made whole at last – the words she’d just seen on the screen danced dizzyingly through her head as he poured everything into his kiss, and into her.

Both breathless and quivering when they broke apart, they reached simultaneously for each other – petting and caressing and cuddling. Connecting and reassuring.

Huddled together, the Universe forgotten.

She forgot her question, too, until she found him gazing down at her. The low lamplight caught, swirling and reflecting back at her against a backdrop of limpid blue.

Galaxies in his eyes, he gave her a slow smile that would shame a supernova. “Let’s find out.”

* _Fin_ *


End file.
